


Hope is a Word so Close to Home

by Little_Red92



Series: Breakthroughs Feel a Lot Like Breakdowns [2]
Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dax is still a good a friend, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Jak needs more hugs, Mention of torture, Nightmares, Post Jak 2, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Squint and you'll miss it gore, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-09 04:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17995028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Red92/pseuds/Little_Red92
Summary: Jak wakes screaming, shivering, fighting off monsters that are no longer there. There’s nothing but darkness, pure panic and a racing heartbeat. Hands search the abyss for a weapon, an escape from the terror, from the hands that hurt and break and take. There’s nothing to fight, only empty frigid air and ghosts from a past Jak’s desperately trying to leave behind. Then there is a familiar voice calling to him from somewhere that is bright and safe and very far from this hellish nightmare world. Jak reaches out through the darkness, following the voice home.***Recovery isn't easy as Jak thought it would be, the nightmares are getting worse, the fear is leaving him paralysed and the urge to run has returned. He can't do this anymore, the darkness is rushing in and this time it might claim him for good.





	1. And Then There Are Days Like These

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this fic for about two months!! It had a smooth start, rocky middle and now it's flowing nicely. It's been challenging and I have re-written small parts and added things here and there, but I think if I keep going over this story I'll never post it.  
> So here it is, the sequel to We Can Never Go Home Again  
> Oh, I forgot to mention, I added some headcanons to fill in the things Naughty Dog never explained.
> 
> PS: Not beta-d, so apologies for any mistakes.

The rain hasn't stopped in a week. The days are miserably cold and gloomy, the rebuilding of the city halted until the weather turns in their favour. The nights are strangely quiet, streets empty of troubled youth that sneak around tagging walls in vibrant marks of rebellion. Haven seems to be at a stand-still, the heavy rains and wild winds keeping people indoors, only venturing out if absolutely necessary There is no better place to be then curled up inside, snug on the sofa with a good book, while soup simmers on the stove. 

There are a dozen places Daxter would rather be then in the gritty, grimy remains of the Underground Bunker. There is no warmth to be found here, the fire is unlit, probably hasn't been burning since the Underground came out of hiding a little over six weeks ago. There's no reason for them to dwell in the shadows, the Underground is now partly in control of Haven, well Torn is at least. Whispers through the grapevine say he and Ashelin are a thing, not that Daxter cares. All he cares about right now is scrubbing the muck and blood from his usually pristine coat.

He doesn't think he’s going to be getting what he wants any time soon, though and this sure as hell isn’t what either of them need. Torn’s been shouting at them for the past five minutes, he's pacing backwards and forwards behind the table that is no longer cluttered with maps and weapons parts, hands folded behind his back in the perfect picture of calm. Only he's anything but and as the second's tick by Daxter feels Jak’s muscles tense beneath him, body shivering violently from the cold, lips twisting into an angry snarl.

Snap, crack and the beast could unleash.

_Again._

Then this night would truly be a colossal fuck up. Given that no one died or was maimed Daxter thinks Torn could forgive Jak's reckless, borderline insane actions and let them go. Jak has shitty self-preservation, a messed-up hero complex and the desire to atone for all the terrible things he’s done. He’s also had a fuckton of trauma that he, no _they_ are barely managing to deal with. Torn shouldn't have suddenly expected a loyal, level minded soldier, not after using Jak as his personal wind up attack dog during the war.

"Alright enough!" Daxter interrupts, fur bristling with rage. "Seriously, you've been yelling at us for five minutes straight, take a breath for fuck's sake, you're going blue!" Torn stares at Daxter through piercing blue eyes, if looks could kill Torn would have won the cities freedom with one glare alone. Daxter is too pissed off to be intimidated by it though. "You had no issue with us being reckless in the past, for a fact, you usually sent us out to do the shit no one else had the guts to do because we were the craziest guys you had. So, stop acting surprised that Jak thinks he's your disposable soldier and stop yelling at us for saving your stupid ass!"

"Listen here, rat, this isn't a war anymore.” He growls, pointing an angry finger at him. “I expect my men to listen and obey my orders. If any of those Metal Heads had gotten back into the city, it would have reflected badly on all of us."

"But they didn't!" Daxter snapped, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, "thanks to us.” He gestures to himself then Jak, returning Torn’s death glare tenfold. “So where is our thank you?"

"I'll post it to you," Torn said gruffly, fatigue seemed to be wearing away the rage, rigid body deflating ever so slightly. "Jak, you could have killed my men by pulling that stunt. Your dark eco abilities are impressive, but you're a loose cannon in that form."

"I've got it under control" Jak muttered through gritted teeth.

"Well, I disagree," Torn stopped his restless pacing, cold, steel gaze pinning them in place. "No more missions, no more going outside the city walls, you are under strict orders to step aside from any Underground business."

"You can't just give me a time out, I’m not a child!” Jak snapped, voice cracking slightly in betrayal, body tensing beneath Daxter’s touch as the anger awoke.

"But you are a child.” Torn slammed his fists against the table, Daxter felt Jak shudder beneath him. Great, the last thing they needed was for Torn to trigger another dark episode. "You are both just kids,” his voice softens, harsh lines and angry scowl slipping from his face, "and Daxter, as much I hate to admit it, you're right, I have treated both of you like throwaway soldiers. It was a war, and I couldn't afford to see you as anything more.” He momentarily lowers his gaze, shaking his head in a resigned manner. “Things are different now, I don't need a half-cocked, revenge-driven men. I need leaders, not damaged kids. Look, you've done more than enough for this city, and yes I am grateful, but Jak…" he sighed, arms folding over his chest as he begrudgingly says, "you need time to deal with your PTSD, consider this a mental health break, okay?"

Jak stares at Torn unblinking, unmoving. Daxter isn't sure if he understood everything just said, but he eventually nods, arms dropping to his side in defeat. 

"It's late, and I'm too tired to make you both do push-ups.” This is his apology and his attempt to show that they’re not banned forever. Torn needs Jak too much to kick him out for good. “Go home and get some sleep."

“Fine.” Jak huffed, arms folding tightly over his soaked chest in a visible display of the walls rising.

Torn is going to have a hard time getting back in, hell, most people are held at arm’s length, forced out into the cold until Jak deems them safe enough to be allowed to venture close. Daxter doesn’t need to climb the walls or tear them down, he has access to the secret passageways. Daxter holds delicate vulnerability in tiny paws, has glimpsed the trauma and pain that helped create the soaring walls. He knows Jak’s thoughtless actions weren’t caused by being allowed to make shitty choices in the past. It was panic and anger twisting, _merging_ together to force a dark transformation.

By now Daxter’s heard enough stories from Jak’s God-awful time in prison to know his rage is born of fear. Jak’s dark side is a failsafe, a dangerous protector.

As they step out into the bitterly cold night, rain biting against their skin, Daxter decides that Torn’s decision to sideline them is probably for the best. Jak has fought enough, has bled and given more than anyone for this stupid city. They need time. Not just small intervals here and there that are punctured with Jak disappearing to Dead Town or the Pumping Station to release his anger on unexpecting Metal Heads. Jak needs to finish healing, hell he’s barely begun.

Jak begins to heal only to sink back into despair, there are days where the darkness lets up, Daxter can bring a smile to his face and find a glint in ocean blue eyes. It comes and goes in waves, and on the bad days the tides drag Jak out into deep, dark waters and it’s getting harder for Daxter to keep him afloat. The good days come and go, are cherished and enjoyed but the bad days are getting worse. A few glimpses behind the blood-stained curtain reveal that Jak’s road to recovery won’t be easy. It twists and bends through treacherous woods, the light so far off it might as well be a dream.

A feeble wish.

No, Daxter won’t give up on Jak. Not ever.

The slums loom over them, ramshackle homes quirt in the late hours of the evening, a few windows are lit up by golden light or the flicker of a television. Eyes peer out through gaps in curtains to see who’s lurking in the streets. Daxter catches the ruffle of curtains and shutter of blinds as he surveys the rain-drenched streets, always on the lookout for trouble. The miserably weather has forced even the petty thugs and addicts into hiding. Daxter is grateful, he doesn’t think Jak could win a fight right now, he’s drained of eco and coiled so tight one wrong tug would unravel him.

It’s a cold, wet walk back to their apartment, Daxter fears by morning they’d both be ill, but at least they are finally out of the rain. Jak took the alleyway entrance to avoid walking through the crowded bar. It appears all the low-lives and thugs are here tonight. Daxter’s really got raise the vibration of this place. Music drifts up through the floorboards, laughter and yelling rising above the thud of pounding bass that rattles the picture frames on the wall. Jak slams the door heavily against the drunken laughter and electronic music, muffling what Daxter hoped wasn’t a brawl starting.

The Naughty Ottsel would survive another night of rowdy fighting, Daxter was beyond exhausted, body numb from the cold. Heading straight to bed was so very tempting, but his fur was soaked, gritty with dirt and mattered with metal head blood. He felt disgusting. Encouraging Jak to the bathroom, Daxter busied himself with turning on the faucet while Jak shed his tattered and blood-stained clothes. The water is blissfully warm, steam cloaking the bathroom in seconds.

Daxter scrubs vigorously at his fur, water turning brown as it trickles down the drain. Warmth returns to his limbs, aches ebbing as tired muscles relax, eyes drooping as sleep comes dangerously close. Shaking the fog from his mind Daxter quickly finishes up, stepping out of the shower just as Jak slips in. Daxter stares at Jak’s slumped, _defeated_ silhouetted a moment too long, getting caught up in an imagination that runs rampant.

Daxter's seen the thick, raised scars on Jak's wrists, caught glimpses of the seemingly endless white pinprick scars that scatter up his arms, clustering together in a mess of scarred tissues in the crease of his elbow. It's heartbreaking, it's gut-wrenching, and it makes him hope, _pray_ that Praxis is suffering somewhere in eternal damnation. He tries not to think about what else must be hidden beneath ratty clothing, but he’s seen enough for his mind to create the worst kinds of horrors.

He's dripping water on the already mud-streaked floor, shivering in the cold night air. Shaking sense back into himself Daxter dries off, leaving the damp towel on the floor. It’s late, and the mess will be there in the morning. Leaving Jak be, he emerges into the apartment, stumbling towards the bed, nearly colliding with one of Jak’s stupid potted ferns on the way. He’s adding this night to his ever-growing list of shitty experiences. It’s not the worst night, and it won’t be the last either, but at least he’s finally in bed, and in the morning things will be better.

Well, he can only hope.

**~~X~**

The strength evaporates from Jak the moment Daxter closes the door, legs buckle, aching body crumpling to the floor. Jak slumps against the wall, sitting with the grime and blood of the Metal Heads he shredded with razor-sharp claws. A ragged, jagged breath escapes past chapped lips, chest rattling with the effort of repressed sobs that sit loaded in the base of his throat. One of these days the sobs are going to break free, explode into the air with such force windows will shatter, and walls will rattle. Not tonight, tonight eyes close against the familiar sting of tears, gasoline burns its way down a sand-paper throat, spreading through lungs that ache in their desire to set free a thunderous scream that would travel miles and miles, echoing on desert winds.

Falling apart seems inevitable. At least it does in the cold, late hours of the night with the remnants of dark eco pulsating beneath shivering skin. He’s wrecked, is sick of trying to heal only to have breakdown after breakdown. Talking about what happened, _reliving it_ , feels like being flayed alive and it’s not fucking helping. It’s making him feel worse. Jak hasn’t revealed much about the torturous years spent in prison, though he is has tried.

Tried so damn hard to make the words rise, to set the pain free.

His voice shakes, words caged by fear, burning in his throat alongside the urge to scream. He should have kept running, kept his mouth shut, but for a moment, for one bright, hopeful moment, he believed that he could get better. That there was a better, a way back to the person he used to be before Praxis and Erol, before the war and dark eco. Jak was wrong, there’s only the fall, only this broken, angry mess he’s become.

Everywhere he looks he finds darkness, no light, no glimmer of hope, no way out.

Water turning cold startles Jak from spiralling thoughts. Rising on trembling legs he turns off the faucet, pipes shuddering and tapes groaning in protest. This place feels like it will collapse on them any day now. Jak waits, expects the walls to crack, the floor to give way just as the ceiling caves in. It doesn’t, it stays standing strong against the storm raging outside. Exhausted, shivering, Jak steps out of the shower, ignoring the clothes strewn floor in favour of drying and dressing.

Jak’s grateful he didn’t get around to putting the clean laundry away this morning, he quickly dresses in an oversized sweater and a pair of loose-fitting pants. The fabric is soft against his skin, texture different from the material he used to wear in Sandover and heavenly compared to the itchy, ill-fitting prison jumpsuit. Warmth wraps around him, fatigue clouding his head, cloaking troubled thoughts, luring him out into the living quarters and to bed. Jak collapses onto the bed, sinking into the softness of the mattress, curling beneath covers he doesn’t remember pulling up.

He falls asleep to the pitter-patter of rain, the distant echo of music and Daxter’s weight against his side.

***

Jak wakes screaming, shivering, fighting off monsters that are no longer there. There’s nothing but darkness, pure panic and a racing heartbeat. Hands search the abyss for a weapon, an escape from the terror, from the hands that hurt and break and take. There’s nothing to fight, only empty frigid air and ghosts from a past Jak’s desperately trying to leave behind. Then there is a familiar voice calling to him from somewhere that is bright and safe and very far from this hellish nightmare world. Jak reaches out through the darkness, following the voice home.

Golden light attempts to scatter the darkness, but it holds tight to him, unwilling to let go, hungry, _ravenous_ for fragile minds and frail souls. Wispy tendrils of the nightmare cling to sweat-soaked skin, trembling fingers clawing at flesh, short nails trying in vain to tear away the feeling of unwanted hands. The familiar voice pierces shrilly through the darkness, soft, small hands tugging him back towards the light. Jak reaches out again, fighting with every ounce of strength left in this bruised and aching body, gripping tight to the hand that pulls him from the dark.

Inhaling deeply, exhaling raggedly, eyes open against the burn of tears. Potted plants that cling to life, mismatched furniture and shadows in the shape of monsters slowly bleed into focus. Shuddering, blinking imaginary demons from sight, Jak let’s out a pitiful cry, too exhausted to care, in too much pain to hold the broken pieces together. Daxter rubs soothing circles against his back, body pressing close now it’s safe to do so. Jak deflates under the touch, turning to look at his best friend with misery filled eyes.

“What’s wrong with me?” it’s hard to breathe. Lungs constrict and burn, waves of dizziness leave his stomach rolling like wild seas. “I can’t breathe.” No matter how many times this happens it never stops being terrifying. This must be what dying feels like. Choked breaths, war drum heartbeat and world fading to black as the curtains draw closed. No encore or second act. Air will leave eco tainted lungs, a single tear will trickle down Jak’s face, and then he’ll just stop. No more hero, no more life or chance to recover, it will end with a whimper.

But it doesn’t, air seeps into lungs struggling to expand and quivering fingers grip at Daxter’s fur in hopes he can make this stop.

Jak wants this to stop, he _needs_ it all to stop.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, buddy,” Daxter reassured, “you’re having a panic attack.”

“Is that what this is?” he asked shakily, the term is unfamiliar while the words are not, strung together in that order gives Jak a clarification he didn’t realise he needed. He’s not dying, his lungs aren’t giving up. He’s just really fucking scared, but the way Dax is looking at him says it’s completely okay. Blue eyes offer safety, soft touch comfort and reassurance.

“Yeah, buddy, I know it feels awful, but it can’t hurt you.” Daxter takes his trembling hand, tiny fingers squeezing calloused ones. “You just gotta breathe through it, okay?”

So he does. Slowly, unsteadily, painfully.

“That’s it, Jak,” Daxter praised, “you’re doing great, you’re okay now. You’ve got this.”

Jak sniffled, head leaning forward to rest against Daxter’s momentarily, seeking comfort, reassurance that Daxter was real, that he was here, not just a dream, a fever-induced delusion. “Is this going to keep happening?” he whispered, breath hitching.

Daxter sighed, tired body sagging as he slumped down on Jak’s legs. “They usually do.” he clenched Jak’s oversized sweater in tiny fists, lifting his heavy head to meet Jak’s haunted gaze. “But in time they won’t be so bad.” Daxter dropped his gaze, fingers scrunching grey fabric into knots. “After you were taken… I started having them, panic attacks, that is. I didn’t know what was happening to me either.” Fingers go slack, releasing memories and tear-stained fabric. “I got through it and so will you.” He looked up, eyes glistening with conviction, voice never wavering. “I promise.”

Daxter can’t make such promises, Jak wished that he could, wished that Daxter had the ability to control the future, the power to make sure nothing awful ever happened to them again. Daxter can’t control time or fate, only the Precursors could. Daxter can’t promise Jak that things will be okay, that _he_ will be okay. No one can. The future has never been so uncertain, and that’s terrifying. On good days Jak believes he’ll make it through to those promised brighter, better days, but in the aftermath of a nightmare, a and a… a panic attack, he feels nothing but desolation.

“I hate this,” he hates the persistent pain that sits deep within his bones, he hates the nightmares and how they leave him gasping for breath and choking on bile. He hates that his mind and body are at war with one another. He hates the beast within, and he hates how weak he’s become, a fragile, paper-thin creature falling apart in the dead of night. This is Jak’s unmaking and if he’s not careful, if he lets the threads unravel too much, then all the glued and taped together pieces will come apart. He will shatter into a thousand, glistening, jagged shards and Daxter will be unable to put him together again.

Sinking back down, curling beneath the covers, Jak stomps down the swell of emotion, eyes closing against tears that could flood oceans and swallows sobs that long to be freed.  

“Jak, hey, c’mon buddy.” Daxter scampers over him, tugging at the covers. Sometimes Jak wished his best friend wasn’t so damn determined to save his life. The thought rises without warning, leaving a cold chill in his bloodstream as Jak forces it away. “Don’t shut me out, please?”

“I’m tired, Dax,” he muttered tersely, he didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to express how awful he was feeling, “I just want to go back to sleep.”

“Alright, well, if you wanna talk, I’m here,” Daxter pats his head through the thick layers of blankets, shifting lightly on the bed as he moves back to his side. “Night Jak.”

Guilt twists knots in his stomach, Jak knows Daxter is only trying to help, but it’s just too much sometimes. It _hurts_ too much sometimes. Heavy lids flutter closed, exhausted, wrecked, Jak is teetering on the edge of consciousness, but before he succumbs he whispers, “night Dax.”

**~~X~~**

Responsibility, Daxter decided, is overrated. For the past two years he’s taken care of himself, had to steal and fight for his right to survive, endured some of the worst people this city had to offer, and now he’d really like for someone to take care of him for a change. Daxter is no stranger to hard labour, he’s scrubbed Samos’s hut top to bottom, crawled into some of the most unpleasant places to kill metal bugs and risked fur and limb to rescue Jak. That he’d do again in a heartbeat, the guilt for taking so long to find Jak clings heavily to him, eating away at his already fragile self-worth. But he doesn’t have time to indulge in guilt, can’t bring himself to apologise either because that will solidify it.

There’s no time for rest or regret, Haven City is bursting back to life, the morning bringing the first rays of sunlight. Reconstruction will start again in a few days once the streets dry, the markets will reopen, and Daxter will go and buy some fresh fruit to cheer Jak up. The change of weather will also bring in more of a crowd, well, hopefully, the Ottsel isn't exactly thriving. Tess assured him things would get better, they just had to lure in customers with flashy drinks and some entertainment to distract them from their miserable lives.

So far, she’s shot down all his suggestions, which leaves him lying sprawled over the bar countertop, gazing up the ceiling like it might reveal the perfect plot to success. It doesn’t. It just reminds him that it needs repainting and cracks filled. Maybe he should march his way to Keira’s, demand Samos stop doing whatever the hell that he is doing and take care of them like he used too. That was his job, after all, to help raise the orphans of Sandover, the poor souls whose parents were killed at sea or lost to a plague.

Samos was supposed to be their guardian, he didn’t raise them alone, but he was the one who made sure they had food on the table and somewhere safe to sleep at night. The villagers pitched in to take care of the children, guiding them, inspiring them and most importantly protecting them. The people of Haven were barely getting by themselves, the war had turned them heartless, selfish as desperation to survive drove their every move. There are no loving families willing to take in one troubled, damaged teenager and his furry best friend. 

At least he had Tess, who at the same age knew of nothing but hardships, yet never lost her light, her desire to help others. She is the reason Keira was safe. Daxter has seen and heard enough to know Haven would have been a dangerous place for Keira to be alone. He is grateful she had Tess and her family of rebels to help her adjust to this new, cruel and callous world. Daxter himself wasn’t always alone, he had Osmo, Ximon, and Taryn, though he has no idea where they are now.

Jak had it the worst, he knows this, and it makes the guilt twist like a knife in his gut, and it forces him to keep going. He owes Jak this. If only he’d found him sooner, if only he’d been braver then maybe, just maybe things would be different. Perhaps there is another reality where Erol never found Jak or a time where they never went to Misty Island, and he is still human, and Jak is the mute, heroic village boy. There has to be a reality out there where pain and sorrow never found them.

“You okay there, Daxter?”

Tess’s pretty face appeared above him, brows furrowed slightly in concern. He's too tired to slap on a cheery smile, playful words dying on his tongue before they can even be spoken. Instead, he sighs, draping an arm over his eyes. “I’ll be fine,” and he will be, he always is, it’s hardwired into him to bounce back, to see the glass half full, but maybe not today, “I just need a week’s worth of sleep and a vacation.”

“A vacation would be nice.” Tess agreed, sighing dreamily. “I’ve never left the city. Most people don’t realise there is a whole world out there! Praxis built the walls to not only keep the Metal Heads out, but the people in and everyone seems to have kinda forgotten that there is more than Haven and the Wasteland.”

Daxter’s eyes snap open, body jerking upright in attention. “Wait?” he holds out a hand, excitement building in his stomach. “You mean to tell me that there is somewhere out there that is actually nice and not on the brink of collapse or crawling with Metal Heads?”

“Well,” she draws out the word, biting her bottom lip nervously, “there are other places out there, but no one I know has ever been to them.”

“Have they even seen them in any shape or form?” Daxter asked, hope turning to ash in his hands.

“Yes, duh, but not in a long time.” Tess paused, head thoughtfully tilting to the side. “I believe there is still so much out there that we haven’t seen!” her eyes lit up, as bright as a night sky full of glittering stars. “There has to be more, Daxter, we can’t be the only city in existence, right?”

“Of course not, baby.” He's not a one-hundred per cent certain he believes this, the Precursors said the Metal Heads destroyed entire worlds, but if Haven is still standing, then there was hope. The idea of packing their bags and going in search of a place that might exist is foolish. Haven is the devil they know, he doubts they’ll find a small village tucked away in the corner of the world, untouched by death and destruction. “Haven ain’t so bad though," Daxter shrugged, he'd had enough adventures for one lifetime, he didn't intend to go seeking some far-off mysterious land. Not again, thank you. “Ashelin’s in charge now so things should get better. Besides, we saved this city! It should be lavishing us in gold and glory.”

“It doesn’t have any gold to lavish you in fuzzball.”

Torn’s raspy voice cut into the lovely moment he was sharing with Tess. Body stiffening in irritation, Daxter flickered a seething glare towards the ex KG. “What are you doing here Tattoo Wonder?” arms cross over a tiny puffed out chest. "I thought we were kicked out of your merry band of misfits?"

“You will be if you keep talking,” he growled, “we can get by without a mascot.”

Daxter resisted the urge to flip him off, teeth grinding against the insults eager to leap from his tongue. As much as he doesn’t like Torn, he knows Jak needs this connection to continue being a part of the city’s protection. Not that Jak owes the city any more sweat, blood and service, but all that restless energy needs to be released somehow and if hunting Metal Heads is how Jak deals with the anger then who is Daxter to deny him.

“Torn, Daxter is more capable then he looks,” Tess informed, glaring daggers at the older man as she cleaned a tumbler with a hint of aggression. Daxter didn’t know someone could look dangerous while drying dishes, but damn, she looked ready to face an army and come out victorious. “You should show him some respect, isn’t that how we treat each other in the Underground?”

Torn looked like he’d rather cut his kidney out with a blunt knife then show Daxter an ounce of respect, but Tess has plucked a nerve because he turns to him with less of a scowl. "My issue isn’t with you, despite your constant chatter and backtalk you surprisingly haven’t given me too much of a headache.”

“Well as apologies go, that was rather lacklustre,” Daxter uncrossed his arms, hands planting firmly on his hips, “but whatever, I suppose you ain’t the biggest jerk I know either.” He shrugged, turning to address Tess, knowing this was probably going to be a long and possibly confrontational conversation. “Could you excuse us sugar, I got it from here.”

“No problem, Daxter.” she patted his head, a gesture that would be condescending from anyone else. “I’ll go collect the few things we need from the bazaar, I’ll be back later sweetie.”

Daxter watched her go, lips tugging into the first true smile of the day. Tess was incredible, and he really liked her, it’s a shame she’d probably never see him as anything more than an animal though. Shaking the thought aside Daxter turned an intimidating gaze Torn’s way, doubting he looked threatening, but it’s still satisfying. “I take it you didn’t come all this way for a drink-” Daxter gestured to the multicoloured bottles that lined the mirrored wall behind the bar “-so spill, what or who do we have to hunt down or blow up?”

“I haven’t changed my mind, you and Jak are not out of the dog house,” he said brusquely, pulling up a stool to take a seat, body held rigidly. Once a soldier always a solider it seems. “But I spoke with Ashelin this morning, and I realised I might have been too harsh on Jak.”

“Geez, you think?”

“I’m still talking!” he snapped, fist banging on the countertop to silence any further commentary. “I realised that if Jak wants to be a part of the reformed Underground, then he needs discipline. I did allow you both to be reckless.” The fierceness ebbs from his tone. “It was a war, and if you knocked down an already crumbling building, then it was no skin off my back. Now, the rules apply, and structure is key; Jak can’t just go around killing people like a wild animal.”

“Yeah, well it’s the Baron’s fault he’s like this!” Daxter exclaimed, anger burning hot and bright only to fizzle out just as fast. Wind ripped from his sails he dropped down onto the countertop, a weary sigh leaving tired lungs. “He used to be different, you know?”

"We all used to be different," Torn murmured, voice strained with a past Daxter doubts he'll ever hear about. "It's not fair what happened to him, but that's life, it chews you up and spits you back out."

“Great pep talk, Torn.” Daxter groaned, rolling his eyes. “Can you get to the point, I’m busy!”

“I don’t know a thing about Jak’s alter ego, but I do know how to deal with a renegade teenager, and that is why I am here.” He concluded. “So, if you would, can you call the little shit down here so we can talk.”

Daxter hopes he’s not going to regret this. With a deep breath, he lifts his chin and opens his mouth, screaming for Jak to get his butt down here pronto. Torn winces, hands rising to his ears as Daxter's wail reverberates around the bar. Not a moment later Jak emerges from the dark depths of the storage room, looking worse for wear, but straightening at the sight of Torn. Still trying to be the loyal soldier it seems.

 _Give him hell, Jak_ Daxter signed, bringing a ghost of a grin to Jak’s face.

“You know sign language?” Torn asked, surprise colouring his voice.

“I have lots of tricks up my sleeve,” Daxter boasted, choosing not to reveal that he learnt to sign from Jak. The memory of spending a long summer learning to communicate with Jak brings a fleeting smile to his face. That was the best summer of Daxter’s short life. His dull, lonely village existence came to an end when he stepped too far into the depths, current sweeping his bony frame out to sea in seconds. If it weren’t for Jak diving in to save him, then he would have drowned or become lunch for a Lurker Shark. They were inseparable from that day onwards, two against the world, causing mischief and menace, though not often getting away with it. Those were brighter and better days, and Daxter hoped and prayed to whoever was listening that they would come again.

“Come to yell at me some more?” Jak demanded a harsh edge to his voice, those expressive brows furrowing into a deep scowl. 

“Actually, I came to have a conversation with you, but if you are going to act like a brat, then I will yell at you.”

Jak crossed his arms, looking like a scolded child and it made Daxter realise that while Jak had lost the most innocence and endured far more than anyone should in one lifetime, he still had childish tendencies. Hell, they both do, Daxter has clung tight to his youth, refusing to give in to the tone set by this hopeless, heartless world. Jak, however, has placed himself in a position where he is expected to act like an adult and behave accordingly. Praxis may have made a deadly weapon, but by allowing the guards and Erol to treat Jak poorly, he’s also created an angry kid with authority issues.

Seriously, what exactly was that maniac’s end game? Experimenting on someone is a sure-fire way to make a super soldier but doing it against their will? Torturing and abusing them is counterproductive and that’s not how you get loyalty. That’s precisely how you give a once kind, sweet kid post-traumatic stress and profound anger problems, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Praxis, Erol, this entire fucking city unmade Jak, tore him apart and spat out a broken, lost child. Jak needed a reminder that his actions had consequences.

“Let’s hear him out, Jak,” Daxter said, sending Jak a quick glance to assure him that it was okay, he was safe.

“Fine.” Jak’s arm dropped to his side, defences lowering to give Torn another chance.

"Sit down," Torn ordered, though there was less bite to his tone.

Jak obeyed, albeit reluctantly, sitting on the stool that Daxter kept behind the bar for himself to stand on, Jak’s body language makes it painfully obvious he needs a physical barricade between himself and Torn. Daxter moves to stand at his side, adding another layer of protection. Ready to place himself in the line of fire if need be. Torn isn’t oblivious though and Jak has a terrible poker face, which they are going to have to work on.

At this moment though, they just have to survive whatever gruelling punishment Torn sees fit to place on them.

**~~X~~**

Jak hadn’t envisioned Torn’s punishment to be scrubbing graffiti from the side of buildings, though he figures he should consider himself lucky that Torn is willing to give him a second chance. It's not like the Underground needs him now the Metal Heads have been eradicated from the city and are slowly disappearing from the outskirts. Torn has no use for a reckless, gun-toting renegade now the war is over, the Freedom Fighters are respected men that take orders and will follow Torn blindly into battle. Jak doesn’t hate Torn, and he trusts Ashelin, but he’s not about to hand undying loyalty to them, or the city since its apparent distaste for him hasn’t waned.

He’s not an ultimate weapon, he's not a disciplined soldier, he's a lost teenager with an ever-growing list of issues. He's a rebel without a cause, a fighter without a battle to be won. Fighting to survive had become all he’d known, now that the dust had settled, and freedom was truly here, Jak found himself clinging to the chaos because he scarcely remembered the peaceful life from before. He had to keep trying though. If Dax and Keira could carve out a place in this mad world then surely, he could too.

Even though Jak loathed every minute spent scrubbing, could feel dozens of eyes scrutinising him, he was going to follow through with it. Cleaning obscene words and angry messages from concrete walls wasn’t the worst form of punishment he’s ever endured. Daxter had offered to accompany him, joking about how it would be like the ‘good old days’ when they’d angered Samos, and he had them mopping floors, but Jak knew Daxter had enough work to do at the Ottsel. This wasn’t his cross to bear, Jak was the one who messed up, who let the fear win.

It wasn’t anger or a primal drive to survive that transformed him the other night. As the Metal Heads swarmed around them, sharp teeth gnashing, claws gleaming with the promise of death. Jak felt panic rip the very air from his lungs, the blinding fear trigging the dark eco. It exploded violently through him, agonising and maddening. The beast emerged, lashing out in reckless abandoned. A desire to kill, to stay alive chasing all reason from his mind. Only when it passed, the pain knocking Jak to his knees, and the last Metal Head fell to the muddy ground, did Jak realise what he’d done.

He’d shredded every Metal Head, guts and limbs scattered over the ground, inky black blood glistening in the moonlight. The Underground members stared at him in horror, frozen in place. They had heard the tales of the monster but never had they truly believed it. That night they had a front row seat to the gruesome horror show, and what a show it was. Jak was dripping in blood, panting heavily as he fought against the urge to cry out in pain, the pulsating eco twisting in his gut, turning to bile in his throat. He stood up straight, swallowed the bile and wiped sweat and blood from his brow, watching the men take a frightened step back.

Feeling a trickle of panic Jak shoves the memory away, sealing it in an unmarked box to store with all the other things he never wishes to remember. Fingers tighten their grip on the slippery brush. He’d been scrubbing the same spot for the past five minutes, and the paint still stuck stubbornly to the wall. Didn’t people have better things to do with their time then tag buildings with ugly art and empty threats? Apparently, rebellion was catching, or some very repressed teenagers were finally letting off steam now the Baron was dead, and the guards wouldn’t kill them for the destruction of city property.

It was strange to think he was probably the same age as the kid who tagged this wall, and yet he's so vastly different to them. Jak doesn’t think he’d ever relate on a personal level to the kids of Haven City. They might want to be part of the revolution in some obscure way, but when push came to shove, he doubts they could keep up with the Underground. Jak understands the anger but the desire for revenge, but a can of spray paint and some slightly poetic words aren’t going to change the world.

At least they get to be kids, something Jak had long given up being. He’s caught in this strange middle ground of still being considered a kid while being given responsibilities that most adults couldn’t handle. He’s stuck somewhere that makes little sense, caught between the desire to be the free-spirited child he was and the broken man he has become. Jak doesn’t know where he belongs anymore. The overwhelming sense of being adrift overtaks him. The swell of emotions stirs awake a tremor, fingers clinging desperately to the brush.

Breathing out an unsteady breath, Jak casts his gaze to the sky, there is a sliver of blue between the building tops. The sight calms him, scattering the darkness and allowing the swirling thoughts to settle. Returning to the task at hand, Jak finally finds the red paint is flecking away to reveal the cold, steel grey wall beneath. Progress at last. At this rate though he’ll be here until sundown.

He’s starting to regret declining Dax’s offer to accompany him. Some chatter would be nice right about now, anything would be better than the dark and troubled thoughts rolling through his fragile mind. But Daxter’s not here, and Jak can’t rely on him to catch him every time he falls or has one of those awful panic attacks. Before heading out the door this morning, Daxter jumped up onto his shoulder, imparting some advice.

“Remember, buddy, if you start to feel anxious take a deep calming breath and pay attention to your five senses.” He held five fuzzy fingers in front of Jak’s face. “Sounds silly, I know, but trust me it helps.”

“Got it, thanks, Dax.”

“And if anything happens, come straight home.” He added, earning a glare from Jak. He didn’t need Daxter treating him like a foolish, broken child too. He _needed_ Dax to treat him the way he always had. “Right, I’m worrying, sorry.” Daxter pulls Jak’s face in for a hug, the comforting gesturing brings a smile to his lips.

In the shade of the laneway, Jak closes his eyes, focusing on the sounds drifting towards him. The city is alive again, citizens returning to the streets, seeking fresh air and sunlight after the long week of cold rain and grey skies. Zoomers speed by, the rumble of their engines a constant buzz in the background. The storm has passed, the war over and Haven is on the road to recovery. Hope and freedom returning bright and glorious once more. In time, the city will live up to its namesake, gradually becoming a safe place for wandering souls and misfits.

A home for the bruised, broken and forgotten.

Jak might still be struggling to find his place in this crazy, messed up world, but Haven is starting to feel a little more like home each day. Which it should, it’s where he was born. The thrown is his birthright. Ruling Haven, ruling in general, isn’t something Jak can ever envision himself doing. Ashelin would do a far better job of taking care of the people. She was raised to be a leader. Jak spent his life seeking adventure, dragging Daxter and sometimes Keira along for the ride. He had a penchant for mischief, a curious drive to explore, not even the Baron could take that from him.

There is a certain irony in Praxis creating the very thing capable of destroying everything he worked for. There is a wicked satisfaction in it. Jak only regrets that he never had the chance to get his revenge. In the Baron’s last moments Jak learnt he was a desperate, scared man trying to stay alive. It didn’t change how Jak felt about him, Praxis wasn’t trying to save the city out of the goodness of his heart. It was greed and the hunger for power that drove his every move. The hatred for Praxis and Erol still burnt hot and violent through Jak’s bloodstreams. Their cruelty would never be forgotten. The scars they left would last a lifetime.

“Jak?”

Startled, Jak spun around, finding Keira standing in the entrance to the laneway. The tension dropped from his shoulders, death grip releasing from the brush, it clattered to the ground as a sharp jolt of pain shot through his wrist. Sheepishly, Jak hurried to collect it, trembling fingers causing him to fumble. "Hey,” he offered, hoping she didn’t notice the quake in his voice, “what are you doing in this part of town?"

"I was fixing a power grid not too far away," Keira replied, venturing closer. “Sorry, I haven’t been by the Ottsel lately. Without Vin, Ashelin’s been relying on me to keep the shield walls up.” She paused, ducking her head before adding. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Hey, it’s no problem,” Jak reassured, corner of his mouth quirking into a smile when she looked up, “and I haven’t exactly been all that social either.”

“That’s understandable." Keira took another step forward, shadows falling away as the pale morning light lit up her pretty face.

There is a smudge of grease on her left cheek, a soft smile gracing her pink lips and suddenly the hands of time are winding back the clock. The air smells salty and sweet, ocean breeze mixing with the damp earth, storms clouds rolling away over the ocean. There is a hint of eco and motor oil hidden beneath the natural scents that waft from Keira’s clothing and skin. There are scraps of bronze Precursor metal sprawled all over the wooden floor. Nimble, calloused fingers put together a puzzle Jak would never solve, but Keira takes one look at the jumbled pieces and sees precisely how they fit together.

For a few precious moments Jak is standing in the past, the eve before it all went wrong. There is a smudge of grease on Keira’s cheek, and her hair is pilled messily atop of her head, the afternoon sunlight bringing out the sparkle in her eyes. This was their last real moment of happiness, the calm before the storm and Jak wished he could cross time and space to return to this peaceful afternoon and set the rift rider ablaze. He’d tell them not to come, he’d let Haven fall to ruins if it meant they could stay in this moment forever.

The image shatters, time slotting back into place, forcing Jak back to the dirty, gritty city, where the air is filled with fumes and broken dreams. Keira remains the same, beautiful and radient. A light burning in the heart of darkness. Just like Dax, she is still here, she always was.

“You’ve been on my mind too." The words spring free on their own accord, drawing Keira closer.

“We’ll have to make more time for one another. That's if I can schedule you in,” she teased, the familiar, flirty banter warming a troubled heart.

“It could be arranged,” he shrugged nonchalantly, “I am a very busy man.”

“Busy doing what exactly?” she asked, head tilting in curiosity.

“Scrubbing walls, unfortunately.”

Keira turned to face the wall, hands coming to rest on her hips as her gaze travelled over the lopsided red letters. “You’ll never get the paint off with just soap and water.” Keira traced a finger over the letters, red flecking off under her touch. “Come on, I’ve got some stuff back at the garage that will take it right off; otherwise, you’ll be here all night.”

“Thanks.” He offered her a tired smile, truly grateful that she was here, that things were starting to feel normal between them again. “I could use a break anyway.” He dropped the brush into the bucket, giving the wall one last glare before following Keira out into the bustling neighbourhood.

“So, why are you scrubbing walls anyway?” Keira inquired, leading him towards her sky blue zoomer.

“Torn thinks I am reckless and need discipline,” he answered, dropping his gaze to the ground, hiding the flicker of shame. He doesn’t want Keira to know he lost control, for her to be afraid of him again.

“You are a little reckless,” Keira agreed, tone light-hearted. Jak chanced a glance at her, catching a thoughtful smile playing at her lips, “though, I always thought of you as fearless.”

“I’m not fearless, Keira.” He admitted voice cracking, words hanging heavy in the air, stirring awake a nervous flutter beneath his skin. The confession leapt from Jak’s tongue before he could silence it. Showing weakness in prison was a death sentence, finally admitting to it feels somewhat cathartic. No more forced brave façade, no more swallowing the panic that burnt like gasoline in the back of his throat. No need to slip on a mask to hide behind. Keira is safe, she would not use his fears or vulnerabilities against him. Letting her see the truth, allowing her to come closer was an unconscious decision, but it’s not regretted.

He is not fearless. He used to be, or as close to fearless as someone could be, but back then Jak hadn’t seen or endured the true horrors the world had to offer. Now, he was held tightly in fears clutches. It was inescapable, following him from moment to moment, never releasing him from its murky depths. Fear had unpacked and made a home inside his heart, it left him waking cold and shaking in the middle of the night, screams echoing in the frigid air. Fear held him hostage, forcing him to look for the nearest exit upon entering a new place, had his mind seeking objects that could be used as weapons.

He was so very, _very_ far from fearless.

“I know, Jak,” she said, reaching up to wipe a speckle of paint from his cheek, “but you’re still the bravest person I know.” Her hand lingers a moment longer, touch warm, gentle and familiar. Jak found himself leaning into her palm, lips quirking into a small smile.

He wants to say so much to her, wants to tell her she is so incredibly brave too. That she’s a genius, is beautiful and extraordinary but the words won’t leave his tongue. He doesn’t know how to tell her any of these things. He could close the distance between them, cradle her face in his hands and capture her lips in a tender kiss, pour everything that can’t be spoken into that one single action. Fear is stronger than desire though, uncertainty holding him back.

There is still something between them, an invisible string tethering them to one another, making sure the world can never tear them apart. A spark burst to life the very first moment they met all those years ago and despite the distance and traumas suffered it still burns brightly. They gravitated towards each other like they meant to be. Like the stars and Precursors had intended for their destinies to intertwin long before they were even thought of in this world. Jak wants her so much, wants them to be the Jak and Keira who explored the Forbidden Jungle together and spent nights gazing at the stars, dreaming of travelling the world to discover all its secrets.

But Keira is no longer that curious girl, and he is nothing like that bright-eyed boy. Instead of following his heart, which isn’t ready for love, it’s a scarred, broken organ just managing to beat, he grabs the keys from her belt and says “C’mon, I’ll drive.”

***

The smell of grease and eco wrap around Jak like an old worn blanket the moment he steps into the garage. The familiar scents awakening a pleasant warmth in his chest. Keira visibly relaxes once the roller doors close, a comfortable silence falling over them as she searches through the many drawers for the paint remover. Jak feels the tension ebb away; harm cannot come to them in here, the corrugated iron doors could keep even an army of Metal Heads out.

There are only three places Jak feels safe in this entire big, bad world and that’s Samos’s crumpling hut in Dead Down, the shabby, rundown apartment above the Ottsel and here.

There only three people who he trusts unconditionally, and only two who feel like home.

“Found it!” Keira shouts triumphally from the depths of a bright pink tool chest. “Knew I had some left over.” She emerged, blowing a strand of turquoise hair out of her eye. “It will remove just about any stain.” She handed Jak the bottle of neon green liquid. “It’s quite strong so make sure you pull up your scarf when you use it, or you’ll get a migraine. Trust me, I learnt that the hard way.”

“Got it.” Jak accepted the bottle, holding it up to the light to examine. "Thank you for this Keira.”

“I’m always here to help, Jak." She slipped up onto a cluttered workbench, fiddling with a spanner as she lowered her gaze.

She looked troubled; green eyes dull without their usual inquisitive glint. Jak pulled himself up onto the bench beside her, briefly touching her knee in an unsure attempt of comfort. It must have been all Keira needed, the air left her lungs in a ragged breath, body deflating as she leant against Jak’s side, head resting on his shoulder. Jak tentatively laced an arm around her slim waist, trying to quell the racing of his heart. There was uncertainty in every breath, body tensing against a fraying will. As much as Jak had longed to be held, to be touched by hands that wouldn’t bruise or bind, his fragile mind seemed to forget that he was safe and flooded his bloodstream with unnecessary panic.

Exhaling the fear through constricting lungs Jak focus on his surrendering, the metal bench is cool beneath his fingertips, Keira is warmth seeping into his side. Keira is unaware of the hurricane threatening to crash through Jak’s mind, her eyes have fluttered closed, expression almost peaceful. The sight eases the icy swell of panic, quietening the raging and ever-looping thoughts. With every ounce of courage that he can muster Jak rests his head against hers, breathing in an unfamiliar scent.

“Your hair smells different.” He noted, reaching up absentmindedly to touch a silky strand of hair.

“Shampoo is the most wonderful invention,” she murmured, lips quirking into a soft smile. “I can never decide which scent I like most though, so I switch it up every few weeks.”

Jak inhaled the sweet aroma, it reminds him of a spring morning in the lavender fields. It’s nicer than the stuff Daxter buys them, and anything is better than the nauseating antiseptic smelling soap prison had to offer. Jak repressed an involuntary shudder, stomach rolling as memories pulled and clawed their way out of tightly sealed boxes. Bile burns in the back of Jak’s throat, body so desperate to be rid of the memories it would force him to purge them anyway it could.

Remembering hurts like hell, it frays nerves and exposes old wounds that have barely begun to heal. But Jak does not break or give in to the pain inside his chest. He swallows the gasoline and adds another lock, raises the walls higher and breathes out, pretending he is okay, when in truth, he’s struggling to hold it together. He’s not okay, he’s rivers and roads away from being remotely okay, and sometimes he isn’t sure he’ll ever be again.

Sometimes those better, brighter days Daxter promised seem so far out of reach.

“Are you okay, Jak?” Keira asked, peering up at him through long lashes, “is your wrist hurting?”

“What?” Jak looked down at his lap, only now noticing his left hand was clutching tightly at his right wrist, bone aching beneath. “Oh.”

He doesn’t know what else to say, it shouldn’t be this difficult to speak. Perhaps if it were an injury from a fall or a Metal Head, then the words wouldn’t be held captive by fear, stuck sitting sharply in the back of his throat. The truth isn’t pretty, nothing ever is when it comes to the stories covering his skin. Every scar holds a painful memory, each mark can tell a harrowing tale and he doesn’t want to subject Keira to the horrors he endured. 

Doesn't want to shatter her last shred of innocence. 

Silence falls over them. Keira turns away, slipping from the bench, the gaping distance reopening between them.

A heavy, broken heart drops to the pit of Jak’s stomach, despair awakening cold and painful in tired bones. The tether frays, soon it will snap, separating them forever, unless Jak finds the courage to open up. He doesn’t want to lose her again, doesn’t want there to be tension and distance between them. Jak wants to hold tight to a life that no longer exists, but days of peace and innocence are over, no more beautiful sunsets setting over a land that was untouched by conflict and madness.

There’s just a war-torn city on the edge of winter and ruin and a childhood friend who is slipping away.

Or so his rattled mind thought. Keira is walking back towards him, clutching a blue ice pack in her hand that Jak hadn’t even noticed her retrieve. Fear is isolating him, is whispering lies and twisting reality. The chasm isn’t reopening. Keira isn’t going anywhere, she’s here, she cares. Jak’s still not used to being cared for. His pain wasn’t a concern for the Krimson guards, they just needed him alive for the next dark eco treatment and a beaten prisoner was far easier to deal with.

Jak fought long and hard. He gave them hell, and they gave him to Erol.

Jak shouldn’t have tried escaping that third time, shouldn’t have thrashed and kicked while the guards dragged him to the chair, strapping him down so painfully tight. Hope burnt bright, innocence not yet gone despite the cruelty he’d endured. The heroic village boy didn’t go quietly. Daxter would come, someone would free him. Any day now Jak would feel the sun warm his bruised skin. Days turned into weeks, fire fading to embers, hope ripped away with each dark eco treatment. The third attempt at escape was out of desperation, an opportunity arose, and Jak took it, running blindly through the winding cell block.

Wailing sirens sound in Jak’s head, thunderous footsteps chasing after him, forcing him to run faster, faster, faster. He never made it to freedom. Didn’t even come close. The memory flickers, images jumbling as events blur. He thought Erol caught him, remembers the devilish smirk, the sick, delighted glint in his eyes, but the memory unfolds differently. Erol didn’t capture him, chasing around after a prisoner was beneath him. It was some faceless, heartless guard who caught him. Dragging him by the hair to a red door that was out of place among all the dirty grey ones.

Jak feels dizzy from the memory, panic flooding his bloodstream with adrenaline. Fingertips grip tightly at the bench in a feeble attempt to tether himself to the world. He doesn’t want to remember what happened in that room, doesn’t want to remember the things Erol did to him. Panic threatens to sweep him away from the safety of the garage, carry him back to that God-forsaken place. He’s paralysed, suspended somewhere in the dark and he can’t find the way home.

The memory is circling around him, the sound of breaking bone reverberating in his head, Erol’s taunting laughter settling on his skin like ice. He’s breaking, unravelling, gasping for breath that doesn’t fill suffocating lungs. Daxter said this couldn’t hurt him, but it feels so much like dying, reminds him of how he felt after a dark eco treatment and that connection unleashes another wave of panic. There is no up or down, no safe place left to retreat to, he’s capsized in the dark waters, drowning in violent memories.

Eco crackles in his veins, the beast within emerging to protect him from threats that are no longer there. Jak grits his teeth against the seething pain, frozen limbs coming back to life as the dark eco floods them. This is a fight Jak cannot win, not today, but if he stays here he risks killing the girl he loves. So he does the only thing he seems to be good at these days.

He runs.

***

The world returns in violent flashes of blood and pain, sky glowing brilliant orange as the sun sets over Haven Forest. Jak’s slumped against the base of an old oak tree, staring down at trembling hands, knuckles leaking crimson. A seething hatred coursed through Jak’s bloodstream, burning alongside the dark eco. Claws slashed widely in the air, anger directionless, exploding into the forest anyway it could. The dark eco transformation was short-lived, eco trickling away, leaving Jak dizzy with pain and panting for breath.

Clarity didn’t return with the ebb of eco, hatred simmered below the surface, anger a puppeteer pulling at his strings, making him perform a violent dance. Hands curled into fists which repeatedly collided with the harsh bark of a tree trunk. Skins tears and bleeds under the abuse, but the rage doesn’t let go of Jak, not until it’s grown cold in his churning stomach, strings severing and sending him crashing to the forest floor.

Rage is a familiar friend to Jak, it was the fuel that kept the fire burning throughout the war. Hate darkens a barely beating heart, but this isn’t hatred for Praxis or Erol, no, this is the ugly, cruel hatred one casts upon themselves. Self-loathing has been hiding in the dark recesses of his mind for weeks, eager to make itself known, to creep out and wreak havoc. Jak has kept it under lock and key for as long as possible.

He’s losing control, threads unravelling faster than he can catch them.

Guilt churns with the hatred, twisting in his gut until it feels like a living being. He could have killed Keira, could have gone on a rampage through the city and slaughtered dozens of innocent people. Fear is more difficult to control then rage, all it took was one unpleasant memory to send him into a spiral. Daxter promised talking about things would help, and Jak tried, he tried so damn hard, and everyone time he unpacked a traumatic memory he felt lighter, but only for a fleeting moment. The darkness was always waiting to come crashing in, and as the blood-stained curtain was drawn further back, the worse Jak begin to feel.

Dax was wrong, talking wasn’t helping, it was making everything worse.

He should stay right here, disappear into the damp, muddy earth beneath him, slip free of this tainted vessel and merge with the forest. Vanish from this cruel world, leave no trace or whisper. If only he could fade away, but the sting of the fresh grazes on his knuckles remind him that he is still very much alive. Jak closes his eyes against the wave of tears, head tilting back to rest against the trunk as a trickle of golden light seeps through the swaying branches, warming his face.

A silent tear trails down his cheek, throat constricting around a ragged breath and his name echoes towards him on the autumn winds.  Eyes snapping open Jak stands in a hurry, searching the woods for the source of the voice. Keira emerges from the shadows, relief glistening in her eyes when she spots him. Jak takes an unconscious step backwards, shame burning hot in his cheeks. Averting his gaze, Jak drops his eyes to the ground, quickly tucking bloody hands behind his back before Keira can notice.

“Jak?”

“You shouldn’t have followed me, Keira.” He isn’t angry with her, but it wasn’t a wise choice to be alone with a monster. Didn’t she realise how close he came to killing her earlier? “I’m not safe to be around.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Jak.”

Jak looks up to meet Keira’s steady gaze, there’s nothing but love and concern shining back at him. Keira doesn’t fear him, but then again, she’s always been foolishly brave. “I’m afraid of me sometimes.” He admitted, hating the hitch in his voice that sounded so close to a sob. “I think I’m starting to be afraid of a lot of things.” The words leave on their own accord, filling the uneasy silence that was stretching out between them. Instinctively, arms wind tightly over his chest, revealing a flash of bloody knuckles.

“You’re hurt.” Keira takes a tentative step towards him.

“I’m fine,” he shrugged off her concern, the sting was nothing compared to the burn the eco left.

“No, Jak, you’re really not,” she declared. “You’ve been through hell; you’re entitled to not be.”

Jak doesn’t know how to respond to this. He’s gotten so used to pretending, to forcing himself to believe the lies, that he doesn’t know how to process this. He’s so used to playing the hero, the renegade soldier, the tough as nails thug, he’s become so many things in order to avoid admitting to himself that he is a complete mess. Beneath the canopy of dying leaves, with the last strands of sunlight fighting against the night, Jak accepts the truth.

He is broken, _ruined,_ and he doesn’t have the strength to be anything else.

“I don’t know how to fix me, Keira.” Hopeless eyes drop to the ground, bitter acceptance cutting the last threads that held all the jagged pieces together.

“You’re not alone.” Delicate fingers cup his chin, encouraging him to lift his heavy head. “Daxter and I are here. We’re going to help you get through this.”

“What if you can’t?” he jerked away, scowling. “What if I’m just broken?”

“I don’t believe that,” Keira said, voice full of conviction. “I know you’re hurting, and I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been through, but I won’t give up on you, on us.” Her words echo Daxter’s, sinking beneath to stitch together a broken fragment of his heart. Keira stands before him, unwavering, unmovable, offering unconditional love and support.

“I can’t give you want you, Keira.” At this moment, as darkness descends over them, Jak realises he can’t be with her, no matter how much he loves her. Keira might believe he can be fixed. Daxter might think a new home and a few peps talks will help, but Jak’s the one standing in the dark, who suffered untold horror’s, and this feels like a losing battle.

“You don’t have to give me anything, Jak,” Keira assured softly, hand dropping to her side.

Jak’s turns away, gaze sweeping over the darkening woods, it’s not safe out here at night. He might not care if he vanished into the forest, but he’s not going to let any harm come to Keira. There is so much he’d like to say, a thousand apologies he’d like to give, but the words won’t leave his tongue. There is no hope or flicker of a spark left to give, the unearthed memories have smothered the fire that had rekindled over the past few weeks.

To think, only a few short hours ago he was flirting with her in the warm light of day, now they are standing in the dark and drifting further apart. If he only he didn’t remember, if only the memories of what happened behind the red door didn’t resurface, but they have, and there is nothing he can do about it. Keira and Daxter can try all they want, but all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put him together again.

He’s broken.

The hero’s journey ends here, under glittering stars and decaying leaves.

“Go back to the city, Keira,” Jak ordered, “it’s not safe here.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Jak.” She plants her feet firmly on the ground, hands resting on her hips in stubborn determination. “Either we go together, or I stay.”

Her words tug at Jak’s aching heart, there are too many thoughts racing around his mind. Churning emotions leave him caught somewhere between hope and despair. Despair wins, it leaves him hollowed out and miserable. Keira reaches for a bloodied hand, touch gentle, cautious, delicate fingers lacing through his, tugging him encouragingly forward. Keira is refusing to leave him to wallow in self-pity, she’s reaching into the dark and dragging him back towards the light.

Jak allows Keira to lead him back to the city, he stumbles numbly beside her, too tired to resist any longer. They drive in silence to the Naughty Ottsel. Jak slips off the back of the zoomer, eyes lowering to the ground, avoiding Keira’s concerned gaze. He feels her hand against his face, calloused thumb stroking his stubbled cheek. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, not since the glint of the razor turned his blood cold.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, leaning into the warmth of her hand.

“You don’t have to thank me Jak,” she assured, smiling tightly. “You should go inside; Daxter is waiting for you.”

“You called him?” Jak jerked away from her touch, finally looking up, a flicker of anger distorting his voice.

“I was worried about you,” Keira said, brows pulled tightly together in distress. “We are all worried about you.”

Jak’s gaze falls to the ground, heart sinking as anger clawed its way past the numbness. Anguished thoughts spill out, slashing the last threads to ribbons, sparks smoothed, turning to ash in a churning gut. Body tensing, nostrils flaring, Jak lifts his head, dark eyes locking with Keira’s. “It’s nice to know I’m not a person anymore.” Misplaced anger pours out, voice full of spite and gravel as he says, “I’m a problem.”

Keira recoiled, shocked into silence. The night air crackles, charged with heartbreak and sorrow, the earth shudders and shakes, splintering beneath their feet. They stand miles apart, pulled right back to the start. The fortress walls rise, self-hatred luring Jak to a kingdom of isolation.


	2. Waiting for The Break of Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely satisfied with this chapter, it's a little short than I was aiming for but I had some writers block and things weren't flowing that well. However, I am working on chapter three and I am very happy with how it's turning out and hope to have posted next Sunday :)  
> Enjoy everyone and if you did, let me know or hit me up at tumblr (http://the-not-so-ordinary-girl.tumblr.com/) if you want to chat about J&D =D

Winter brings snowfall, not the glistening white, waist-deep type of snow that covered Snowy Mountain, no, nothing is ever pretty in Haven. Snow turns to slush in the streets and forms jagged icicles in doorways that look ready to impale anyone who is unlucky enough to stand beneath them. There are no delicate snowflakes to catch on tongues, they either land on rooftops or turn into shapeless blobs before melting on the pavement below. Winter is harsh and bitterly cold in Haven City, water freezing over in the port, but the citizens are encouraged not to skate on it as the chemicals in the water make the ice unpredictable.

The metal platform is cold and slippery beneath Daxter’s paws, the heavy thud of bodies echo in the early morning air, white snow turning black as blood spills out of slashed throats. Daxter shudders as the last Metal Head splits in half, stomach rolling as the metallic smell of blood and dark eco waft towards him, carried on the icy breeze. Jak stands amongst the carnage, chest heaving, face contorting in pain as the dark transformation recedes. He collapses in the blood-soaked snow, hollow gaze lifting to the sky, watching the first strands of sunlight rise over the sea.

Daxter leaps down from the platform, scurrying towards Jak through gritty sand and snow, mindful of the shredded Metal Head parts. He doesn’t know what to say, he never knows what to say anymore. The violent, angry renegade stormed back in three weeks ago, at first Daxter thought it was just another bad day that turned into a bad week that became two. Autumn faded away, the last of the leaves shrivelling and dying, dawn rising with grey skies, snowfall and no change to Jak’s mood.

It was going to be a long, dark winter.

Still, Daxter held tight to hope, kept trying to get Jak to talk even though every time he was met with silence and an angry snarl. That would be the last he’d see of Jak, he’d disappear into the frozen city, returning hours later, eyes haunted, skin pale, hands shaking. Helpless, Daxter could only watch as Jak fell deeper into despair, those who tried to help were locked out, chased away by the flash of sharp teeth and black eyes. Not even Keira and Samos were able to reach him.

Daxter had never been afraid of Jak until the night he stormed into the bar, footsteps thunderous on the floor, air charged with the crackle of dark eco. Tentatively, Daxter followed him upstairs to the apartment, ill-prepared for the mood Jak was in.

“Jak, buddy, hey, are you okay?” he asked shutting the door to quieten the racket rising from downstairs. “Do you have any idea how freaked I’ve been?” he added when he was only met by the tense set of Jak’s shoulders. “I was ready to call in a search party! You gotta stop taking off.” He fills the air with nervous chatter, used to his words soothing Jak’s anguish, quips and jokes pulling him back from the brink. Tonight, he should have kept his damn mouth shut, said anything other then what he said next. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“You know, Dax,” Jak spins around, pinning him in place with a monstrous glare, “this whole talking thing isn’t fucking working.” Bloodied fingers ball into fists, sharp teeth glint through an angry snarl. “It’s only making things worse. You’re only making things worse!”

A tiny heart stutters and cracks as tears well in blue eyes. It takes all of Daxter’s strength to fight them down, to not take the words too personally. “I’m only trying to help, Jak.”

“Well, you’re not, Daxter. No one can help me.” He doesn’t shout, yet his voice is thunderous, cut through with something that doesn’t sound entirely human, “I’m ruined, okay, you can’t fix me.”

“Jak, no, hey." He closes the space between them, wants to jump up onto Jak’s chest and shake some sense into him. "That’s not true. Look, you’ve clearly had a bad day. I’m going to give you some space, but tomorrow we’ll talk, alright?”

“Whatever,” Jak growls, gaze dropping to the ground in defeat.

Daxter hesitates, lingering a moment longer before walking back towards the door, music and drunken laughter trickling in as he steps out into the dimly lit hall. Pausing, Daxter turns back and says. “It’ll be okay, Jak.” Time seems to move in slow motion. Jak lifts his head inch by inch, Daxter expects to see a flicker of a smile, a glint of hope in those ocean blue eyes. Instead, he’s met with a hollow, black gaze that knocks the very air from his lungs. Jak or the thing that isn’t Jak strides towards the door, slamming it in his face with a resounding bang.

Daxter stood frozen on the spot, staring at the scratched and chipped red door, heart pounding like a war drum, reverberating in his head in time with the thud of the base. In that moment he was afraid, not of Jak, but for him. Sleep eluded him that night, terrifying nightmares following him into the dark, causing him to wake with a scream dying on the tip of his tongue. By the time the sun rose, Daxter had made up his mind. There was only one person who had the wisdom and knowledge to help.

Of course, that all blew up in his face. Samos’s great idea was to hold an intervention, and that went as smoothly as walking into a Metal Head nest blindfolded and weaponless. Even Keira’s gentle attempts to encourage Jak into conversation failed. Keira was cast out, Samos’s sagely advice ignored. Daxter was left trying to stitch all the pieces together again. Now he’s standing in the freezing snow, watching his best friend shudder as dark eco seeps back into his veins.

Daxter is terrified, Jak keeps running, putting miles and miles between them. Daxter gives chase every time. Will follow Jak to the edge and tumble right over with him if he has too. An idea rises, hope flickering weakly to life. All this time he’s been asking Jak to reveal the horrors of the last two years, and for a while, he shared small glimpses into a brutal past but doing so awoke forgotten pain. The only useful thing Samos said was ‘healing doesn’t come easy. Pain demands to be felt and felt it must be’ which translate to reopening old wounds is fucking awful, and Daxter made Jak relieve some pretty horrible things.

As Jak struggles to his feet, Daxter views him differently, scolding himself for not noticing before now. Jak’s anger comes from a place of fear and whatever trigged him two weeks ago sent him spiralling back into the dark. Daxter’s going to have to drop by the garage and get Keira to go over the events of that day again, allow this revelation to give him a new perspective. For the moment, he’s going to break the silence that has fallen over them like a loaded hush.

“I remember my first winter in Haven,” he says, falling in step behind Jak, “I was so afraid I’d freeze to death.”

Jak falters, head swivelling to look down at him.

“I made myself a sad little home in a discarded box in the back of some trash-strewn alleyway,” he continued, walking a little ahead of Jak, “had my own little fire and everything. Though it was far from cosy. Every night I’d lie awake and listen to strays rummage around in the garbage, hoping they wouldn’t find me and make me their next meal.” He turns to look back at Jak, the memory of bitterly cold nights and days spent scrounging for food leaves an ache in his chest. “I was scared,” he admits to Jak, he would never say the words to anyone else, he’d tell a heroic tale of fighting off wild crocadogs and junkies, would paint himself as brave, as anything but a scared boy who cried themselves to sleep at night.

“I’m sorry, Dax,” Jak says sincerely, no grit or bite to his words.

“It’s not your fault buddy. Besides, I survived, and I have some cool stories to tell people!” He grinned, waiting with bated breath to see how far the defences would lower. The corner of Jak’s mouth curls into a fleeting smile, the sight lifting Daxter’s spirits. “Hey, think it would be too much to ask for a ride back to the city?” Jak’s prickly nature has made riding on his shoulder difficult, even his gentle touch has left Jak flinching.

“Of course, Dax." Jak holds out an arm in invitation.

“You’re the best baby.” Daxter scurries up, settling into a proud stance on Jak’s shoulder plate, shooting him a brilliant grin that is the first genuine smile he’s had in weeks.

This is progress, a tentative step back towards the right path.

**~~X~~**

The following day, while Jak is sleeping fitfully, Daxter grabs the keys for the zoomer then slips out of the apartment, making his way through the early morning traffic to the Mar Memorial Stadium, where an anxious Keira is waiting for him. Upon entering the garage, Daxter’s senses are overwhelmed with the scent of echo oil and coffee, their engine parts and metal junk scattered all about the place. Zoomers with their guts torn out capture his attention, two of them are mangled pieces of metal and plastic, the third only has some scraped paint.

The twisted wrecks are the standard racing zoomers, and Daxter can only imagine that the fate of their drivers wasn’t pretty. The rest of the varies machinal pieces are meaningless to him, though he can only assume by lingering smell of coffee and Keira’s dishevelled hair that she’d spent the night working or creating something, either way, she looks a little worse for wear. She paces about with restless energy, pouring him a cup of coffee, uncharacteristically quiet. She hands Daxter a lilac mug, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the brim, before folding herself onto the beat-up, grease-stained leather sofa.

Huddled in her oversized dusky pink sweater, doe-eyed and rosy-cheeked from the cold Daxter can’t help but notice how vulnerable she looks. It’s no wonder she put on such a tough façade the first time he and Jak walked in here, it’s not safe to reveal any form of weakness in this wicked city. There are men with dark hearts who take pretty girls like Keira, who grab them from their homes in the middle of the night or pull them into alleyways while others pretend not to see.

Girls like Keira disappear in Haven all the time.

Daxter’s stomach churns with these thoughts, he hates what the world has become, a dark and dangerous place that rips away innocence and breaks pretty things. Things will change, Ashelin will change things and someday soon, perhaps when spring arrives with its warmth and colour, the world will be safe again.

“You wanted to talk about something?” Keira’s voice cuts into Daxter’s swirling thoughts.

“Right, sorry, got side-tracked,” he takes a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste, he prefers more sugar, but he is in desperate need of the caffeine hit. “I wanted to go over what happened with Jak the other week.”

Keira sighed wearily, bracing an elbow on the back of the couch to rest her head against. “I just finished working on the power grid in the southern slums when I came across him. He was a little startled at first, but otherwise he seemed fine, was playful actually.” Fingers drum an irregular rhythm on the star-speckled mug clasped in her small hand. “I noticed his right hand shaking earlier, and by the time we arrived here, he was clutching at his wrist. I asked Jak if he’d hurt himself and a few seconds later he had a panic attack.” Keira lifts her gaze, eyes shimmering with tears. “I feel awful, Daxter.”

“Trust me, I know the feeling,” he said, “I’ve triggered Jak myself, and it’s a gut-wrenching experience, but you didn’t know.”

“It’s not just that, I hate what the Baron did to him, I hate that he took our sweet, heroic boy and tortured him.” Anger flares in Keira’s voice, fingers tightening their hold on the ceramic mug. “He’s a monster.”

“Keira, hey, Jak might be a little broken, but he’s not a monster!” Daxter defended, tone biting.

“Precursors, Daxter, not Jak! I meant Praxis,” she clarified, “and Erol.” She spat his name, each letter dripping in disgust.

“Oh right, sorry,” he mumbled apologetically, “I’m a little defensive of him these days, what with the whole city calling him an eco-freak.”

“They're wrong.” Keira shakes her head, pieces of hair slipping free from her messy bun. “Jak’s still the kindest person I know… I just wish I figured that out sooner.”

“I think we were all blindsided by his rage.”

In the beginning, it was hard to see past the ravenous desire for revenge and insatiable need for chaos. Daxter feared the anger was all that was left of his best friend, worried late into the night that the fury would consume him. Jak was broken and haunted, untrusting even of him for those first few days. The carefully placed mask began to crack, pitiful cries woke Daxter in the dead of night and when Jak woke, fist swinging at an assailant that wasn’t there, he realised there was far more left in Jak then anger. Over the following weeks, Daxter saw glimpses of his childhood friend return, kindness and bravery were not snuffed out, loyalty and love not ripped away. The values Jak had been taught as a child were still there, buried beneath layers of suffering.

The heroic boy from Sandover isn’t truly gone, he lives on, but he’ll also never return. They must rebuild, start from the ground up, but first, they need to lay a solid foundation.

“He’s never going to be the same, Keira,” Daxter continues, “but he’ll always be our Jak.”

“I’ll do whatever I can to help, Daxter.” Pink lips curl into a gentle smile, Keira lifts her head, shoulders straightening in determination. “So will daddy. Though, Jak is still upset with him, which I can understand.  He was way out of line with ambushing Jak like that, but to be honest, father hasn’t been himself either.”

“Yeah, I guess we’ve all been through a lot.” Daxter set aside the empty cup, rubbing his hands together, they’ve veered off course, he actually came here to tell Keira about his revelation. “Okay, I think I’ve found a way to get through to Jak.” Keira leans in, gesturing for him to go on. “We’ve been asking Jak to talk about what he’s been through, which is kinda putting him in the limelight and dredging up some painful memories, but we’re not sharing our stories. I think if its less about forcing him to reveal everything and more of a conversation about our shared shitty experiences then Jak mightn’t feel so signalled out.”

“So, we’re rebuilding trust and connection.”

“Exactly!” Daxter jumps to his feet in excitement. “Not a foolproof plan, I admit, but it’s worth a shot.”

“I think this is a good idea, we’ve been separated for such a long time that rebuilding our friendship is important but do you think-” she paused, hand rising unconsciously to her mouth, teeth biting down on a chipped thumbnail out of nervous habit “-do you that maybe Jak should see a therapist? We’re just kids Dax, we’re out of our depths here.”

“Honestly, yeah the guy does need to see someone.” He agreed. “Hell, after everything I could benefit from seeing a therapist or a shaman or anyone that is remotely trained in helping people, but Jak’s not there yet.”

“Alright, but we should revisit this in a few weeks’ time,” Keira concluded. “In the meantime, I’ll do some research, if we can’t consult a professional, we should at least know what we’re doing so we don’t do more harm than good.”

“Very wise, I’ve fucked up far too many times for my liking.” Daxter slipped off the couch, the race car clock on the wall revealed that the morning was so clawing its way towards eight-thirty, he’d like to make it back to the Ottsel before Jak woke up. “I’ll catch up with you later in the week, I better go before Jak realises I’ve taken the zoomer.”

“Wait, Daxter, before you leave,” Keira rose, question teetering on the tip of her tongue, “do you know what happened to Jak’s wrist?”

The reply lodges in Daxter’s throat, heart squeezing in his chest. He has a fragmented version of what happened, a spliced together idea of what might have transpired. It could have been snapped by an enraged guard, broken out of malice or as Jak struggled to escape. There are so many horrible pieces that would fit, a number of events could have occurred that would result in such an injury, but there is this twisting, sinking feeling in Daxter’s gut that says he knows exactly how it happened.

“Not really,” he admitted, voice unsteady, “but my instincts are inclined to think it was Erol.” Rage burns hot through his veins, jostling aside the sorrow. “There’s heavy scarring on both Jak’s wrists, and his ankles, from the cuffs.” The words leave Daxter’s mouth by their own accord, ripping free with a painful tug. “His arms are covered in needle marks too. Jak mostly wears long sleeves with gloves but I’ve caught glimpses, it’s not pretty. But no,” he sighs, anger leaving tiny lungs in a rush of air, “I don’t have the full story. Jak could only tell me bits and pieces, now he’s not saying anything.”

A broken sob burst from Keira’s mouth, hand flying up too late to silence it. She trembles, eyes closing as tears streak down her pale cheeks. The sound reverberates in the garage, breaking Daxter’s fragile beating heart. “I’m sorry,” she weeps, smearing tears on pink sleeves, “sometimes I wish Praxis was still alive so he could be punished for what he did. A quick death was too good for him.”

“Yeah, I would have loved to see him spend the rest of his days locked in a two-by-four cell, being fed roach food and subjected to weekly beatings.” Awkwardly, he added some warmth to his tone, trying to offer her some comfort. It works, Keira’s eyes dry and a ghost of a smile lights up her face. Daxter’s ears perk up, hope bursting to life with an idea. “Could your dad… could he maybe heal Jak?”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head sadly, “green eco can’t heal old injuries.”

“Shit.” Daxter cursed, ears drooping in disappointment.  

“It’s going to be okay, Dax.” Keira lowers herself to Daxter’s height, pulling him for a tight hug. “We’ll face this together.”

“Of course, will we, it’s us! We’re capable of anything!” He hugs her back, indulging in the comfort. “A little more time and this trio will be back in fighting form!”

It’s going to take more than time to heal Jak, but Daxter believes that on a far-off day when spring thaws the ice and life and colour return to the world, they’ll be able to look back and see how far Jak’s come. There will be a turning point, a change that stays more than a few fleeting days. Things are going to get better, he just has to accept that better is miles and miles away, but each day will bring them closer.

**~~X~~**

Pain… pain is inescapable, each breath ragged as broken ribs expand to let in eco tainted air. Pain is everywhere, from the tips of bloodied fingertips to the soles of cold feet. Pain follows Jak from moment to moment, is blossomed over skin in purple and green bruises, seeps out of crimson slashes and needle-pricked flesh.

Screams… God the screams are thunderous, they reverberate through the concrete halls, tortured souls wailing all hours of the day. Jak will never forget the sound of grown men screaming as they go mad, minds twisting and splintering as the dark eco rips their bodies apart from the inside out.  

Fear… fear has unpacked inside a feeble body and made a home. It winds muscles tight and makes a fragile heart pound like a war drum. Fear is a fiend sitting on the end of a rickety cot, it whispers late in the night that danger is near even though, in this fleeting moment, his tortures are not here. Fear follows Jak from this dark place out into the bitter, hopeless world. Its roots embed deep, sinking even deeper as forgotten memories dash out of concealed compartments.

Blood, a flash of silver, a devilish smile.

Hands… hands holding him down, hands hurting, leaving bruises, ripping away dignity and the will to fight.

Tormenting memories crash over him, leaving no sense of reality or clarity. There’s only anguish. A room behind a red door, a chair that glints with menace and the promise of pain. Jak is unable to escape the carrousel of horror, spinning around, around, around, tossed from one awful moment to the next. Memories claw and slither out of the dark, Jak is helpless to keep the boxes sealed, something has stirred within, and it’s coming out to play.

Memories shift into nightmares and nightmares twist into a distorted reality.

It’s this blood-soaked, pain-filled, harrowing world that pulls a terrified scream from Jak’s throat. It’s the sensation of warm blood and cold metal biting into exposed flesh that has him jerking awake, desperate hands already reaching for a weapon. It’s the ghost of Erol’s face hovering at the end of the bed that has Jak firing off two shots. A potted plant explodes, soil spilling out over the floor, a lightbulb shatters, glass raining down like sharp, glistening tears.

Jak stares at the empty space, trembling, choking on crisp morning air. Tears blur his surroundings, shifting furniture into monsters, panic turning the apartment into a strange and dangerous place. Tendrils of the nightmare cling to sweat-soaked skin, distorting Jak’s perception of reality. Awakening a voice that whispers over his skin the way sharp blades used to slice into delicate flesh.

“It appears you’re all alone again, Jak.”

 _His_ voice cuts through the air, seeps into Jak’s bones, freezing him in place. Trembling fingers grip the blaster tight, heart pounding in the base of a tightening throat. He glances to the right, stomach twisting into knots when he finds Erol leaning casually against the bookshelf that separates the sleeping quarters from the main section of the apartment. From this vantage point, Jak can’t see the door. If he made a run for it, Erol would easily be able to stop him. Could put a bullet right between Jak's eyes before his next ragged breath.

But Erol can’t be here. Erol is dead. Killed himself in his desperate attempt to steal the people’s only hope. Erol isn’t here, he can’t be. Yet he is. Jak raises the blaster, the beam resting right between Erol’s soulless eyes. He doesn’t flinch, thin lips curl into a wicked. Jak shakes off the ice and fires, bullet sailing through air, bouncing off something out of sight before shattering another potted plant.

“Shit!” Jak jumps to his feet, moving cautiously past the bookcase, scanning the conjoined kitchen and living room in search of Erol. He is alone. Downstairs is quiet, no clatter of dishes or clink of bottles. No voices or music or footsteps rushing towards the door. Daxter’s gone. He didn’t say he was going anywhere. There is no note stuck to the fridge or door. No coffee brewing or lingering smell of breakfast.

There is just an empty apartment, a terrified boy and a phantom standing in the shadows.

“Look’s like Daxter’s finally left you,” Erol taunts, striding out of the darkness, moving predatorily towards where Jak stands, clutching the blaster like a lifeline. “Who could blame him? All you ever do is sit around and sulk? Some hero you are.”

“Shut up!” Jak aims the blaster at Erol, hands trembling uncontrollably. The beam keeps slipping from it’s intended location. “He wouldn’t just leave.”

“Yet here you are.” Erol glides towards him, movements fluid, body rippling like he’s made of eco. A ghost back from the grave to haunt him. “All alone and at my mercy.”

And just like that, he’s fifteen years old again, helpless and scared. _Paralysed._ The gun clatters to the ground, the thud of metal on wood deafeningly loud, sparing Jak into action. A fist swings towards Erol’s smug face, colliding with empty air. Jak stumbles forward from the momentum, tripping on the edge of the rug as he goes. Bracing himself for the impact he falls heavily onto outstretched arms, pain shooting up his right arm as the collision jostles his wrist.

“Well that was rather pathetic.” A gloved hand grips tightly to Jak’s hair, hot breath whispering over skin as Erol leans in closer. “You’re really living up to your image there, Jak.”

“Get out of my head!” Jak recoiled, heaving himself to unsteady feet, preparing for the right moment to run. “You’re not real!”

“That might be so-” he rises gracefully, golden eyes sweeping over Jak, leaving shivers in their wake “-but I’m the monster in your head, the ghost keeping you up at night.” There’s a satisfied glint in Erol’s gaze, a sense of warped pride underlining his words. “I might not be real, but your memories of me are.”

“Y… you can’t h… hurt me anymore,” Jak stutters, hating himself for reverting to the frightened boy who couldn’t mutter a single syllable without tripping on the words.

Erol tips his head back, a raspy, amused chuckle escaping into the air, settling like ice on Jak’s skin. “Oh, can’t I?” He steps closer, brandishing a jagged-edged blade.

Jak stumbles backwards, breath catching in a tightening throat. Scars ache in memory, heart beating wildly, pounding in his head like a war drum. Jak remembers how that blade feels slicing through his skin, it tugs, and tears flesh apart, leaving jagged red lines that look reminiscent of Lurker Shark bites. Erol turned Jak’s body into a canvas, streaked it with red and covered it in purple and blue.

Some marks were healed. While others remained.

On the days Jak bent to Erol’s will he’d erase all evidence of his work, leaving a clean slate for a fresh start for whenever the next ‘experiment’ was. Eventually, Jak learnt that not all hours spent with Erol were for conducting experimentations. Erol liked reminding Jak who was in charge, he did so with a cruel smile and a sickening enjoyment. Erol hurt Jak because he could. His skin is covered in reminders of Erol’s cruelty, irrevocably marked by his twisted works of art.

Errol steps closer, desire for violence lighting up his tattooed face, blade winking in the morning light, promising a world of pain. Jak has two choices, give in or fight. It doesn’t matter that Erol’s just a figment of his imagination, the panic is real, the need to escape overwhelming. Dark eco crackles in the air, skittering over paling skin. Sharp pain bursts to life in fingertips and momentarily blinds him as horns pierce through bone.

Jak just wants to be safe, to be saved from the man who hurt him so profoundly.

He lets the darkness consume him.

**~~X~~**

Home…

Home is so far away.

But here is almost home.

Samos’s hut sways in the wind, roof sagging under freshly fallen snow, the floorboards creak and groan under Jak’s weight. He sits with the dust and debris, _broken_ , choking down bitter sobs, skin crawling, burning from the overuse of dark eco. He doesn’t remember how he got here, there are snatches of memories, claws slicing through the air, furniture shattering, chunks of wood and cotton raining down like confetti from the worlds saddest parade. There are flickers of terrified faces, shrill screams echoing in his ears, Erol’s taunting laugh chasing him all the way to Dead Town.

Jak shudders, shrinking further into himself. He wants to disappear, to sink through the cracked and rotten floorboards and seep into the foundations of the earth. Vanish in tendrils of smoke on the icy wind, blow far, far away to a place where his past can’t reach him. A feeble sob claws its way up his throat, ripping its way past tightly sealed lips. It’s thunderous, rattles the very bones of the hut. It hurts, everything hurts so much, and Jak feels so impossibly small.

But then there is a shift, a soft barely-there touch on his arm, and when he lifts his head, Daxter is standing before him. For a moment Jak fears that Daxter is a figment of his imagination, a trick of the light, but then he’s leaning in, fuzzy forehead resting against Jak’s clammy one. A shaky breath expels from aching lungs, a single tear trailing down a flushed cheek.

“You’re okay, buddy,” Daxter whispered, fury hands reaching up to cup Jak’s face, thump sweeping away a stray tear. “You’re safe, I’m here.”

“I hate this Dax, it’s too much.” He’s tired of being afraid, can’t cope with the nightmares and the pain. Is sick of being paralysed by fear. “I can’t handle this.”

“Hey, yes you can,” he rushed to reassure, though his voice was anything but steady, “you’ve got this.”

“No, I don’t!” He didn’t have anything, no fire, no hope, no strength left to fight with. He was exhausted, was broken in so many ways and Daxter couldn’t fix him. “I need it to stop,” he cried “I need everything to stop.”

“Jak, no, it’s going to be alright,” Daxter sounds frantic, desperate to believe his own words. “You need to deal with what’s happened to you, Jak, if we don’t face this now, it’s only going to get worse.”

“We?” His head snapped up, face contorting in rage. “There is no **we** Daxter. You weren’t the one who was strapped down and injected with dark eco, you weren’t the one who was beaten and starved, I was!” Jak’s voice darkens with anger, words rattling through Daxter’s tiny frame. “So, don’t tell me **we** have to face this. I’m the one who was experimented on, who was humiliated and violated day after day. You’re never going to understand any of it.” Jak shot to his feet, shoving Daxter harshly aside before marching towards the door.

“Stop running!” Daxter shouted shrilly, sprinting to block the exit. “Please, just stop running. It’s only hurting you, Jak.” Daxter stares him down, eyes flickering with a sea of emotions, fur standing on end as his chest swells, the way it does when he’s ready to explode.

And he does.

“You’re not the only one who’s hurting here, okay? Seeing you like this, knowing I can’t cheer you up with a stupid joke or silly story is killing me.” Daxter voice is thick with anguish, words slamming into the towering walls. “I know you’re in pain, mentally and physically, and I know you think that you can’t be fixed, but you’re wrong!” The walls shudder, spiral cracks splintering the carefully built structure. “You can yell at me all you want, push me aside, I don’t care, but I’m not giving up on you Jak! I’m not _ever_ giving up on us.”

“Dax,” Jak shudders, air leaving his lungs as legs give in, sending him crashing to the floor with such brutal force it rattles him to the very core. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say any of that.”

“It’s okay.” Daxter rushes to his side, always trying to catch him when he falls. “You’re allowed to be angry and sad, and you’re allowed to be afraid, but you gotta stop holding it all in. It’s killing you, buddy. It’s okay to let go.”

“I’m scared, Daxter,” he confessed, lashes fluttering against the sting of tears, “I’m scared that if I do, I’ll fall apart.”

“You probably will,” Daxter said, smiling ruefully “but you’ll get back up.”

“What if I don’t?” What if the hurricane destroys him, what if the pain is so powerful that it becomes inescapable? But what if it doesn’t, what if this time, if he lets the tears flow and sets the painful memories free, he can finally begin to heal? What if he has to break in order to rebuild?

“You will,” Daxter echoed, small paw reaching out for Jak’s hand, “because you’ve got me.”

And that’s all it takes. A bulletproof promise, a reassuring squeeze of fingers and the walls come crashing down. A jagged hiccup rises up his throat, escaping into the air, an ocean of tears following. Consumed by sorrow Jak shatters into a hundred glistening shards, neglected pain appearing out of the darkness, demanding to be felt. Haunting memories seep out, the emotions tethered to them rattling through his trembling body.

He breaks, falls apart in a thousand painful ways, clinging to Daxter’s small frame like a lifeline as he sobs. He cries for all that has been lost, all that was stolen by wicked hearts and dark minds. He cries until his throat burns, and the sun has risen high in the sky. He cries until there is nothing left, no spark of a flame or a flicker of light, no grief or anger. He’s a hollow being sitting on the ground, collecting dust, decaying with time.

He’s nothing more than fragile lungs and a barely beating heart.

Quickly, he shakes these thoughts away, sniffling loudly in the too quiet hut. It hurts now, but soon, on some far-off day when flowers blossom in the wake of spring, it won’t hurt as much. He’s been falling for weeks, teetering around painful memories and plucking snippets of traumas free, but only by landing can the healing truly start. It’s fucking painful and brutal, the worst not yet over, but as a trickle of sunlight filters in through the cracks in the ceiling, a weight Jak didn’t realise he’d been carrying lifts from his shoulders.

He’s hit the ground, shattered all over the remains of Samos’s living room, but it feels like a start.

It feels like maybe, _just maybe_ he can begin again.


	3. Tomorrow Holds Such Better Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very pleased with how this chapter turned out! I did something a little different, and I love the end result. I thoroughly enjoyed writing for Jak and Daxter again and plan on writing more fics in the near future. I also might add some more to this series, add some little moments that never made it. Also, I need to write a Jak/Keira fic as they are my babies and I have missed them so much. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the final chapter and let me what you thought or what other moments from this series you would like to see :)

Spring arrives with a burst of colour, tulips bloom to life, golden sunflowers and sweet-smelling roses emerge in gardens that will be shown care for the first time in years. Brown patches of snow melt away to reveal crisp green grass, the usual sombre sky is an endless expanse of blue dotted with white clouds that lazily drift by. Haven Forest comes alive with birds chirping and creatures scurrying about the undergrowth. Kids play in the streets, celebrating the warmer weather, dipping toes into freshly thawed water, flinching at the icy touch. Late at night teens dare another to dive into the still frigid waters of the port, the sound of splashing and laughter trickling in through partly open windows.

Pulled from bed one restless night, Jak peers down at them, curious and envious. It wasn't long ago that he and Daxter were sneaking off in the dead of night to take a swim in the calm waters near the old farmer's hut. Jak plucks out the memory, unfolding it, letting the floors beneath his feet turn to sand, the roof lift away to reveal a vast night sky that glitters with stars that aren't dulled by hundreds of city lights. Jak holds the memory in his mind, hears Daxter's stifled laughter, can feel the warmth of the water lapping at ankles, the cool, salty breeze ruffling fingers through his hair.

For a few precious moments, he is back in Sandover, is carefree and so beautifully alive.

Jak lets the memory go, ocean and night sky falling away to reveal tired eyes reflected in the grimy glass of the window. Jak sighs, breath fogging over the reflection, down at the port the teens have scurried off as a patrol walk by. Jak’s heart sinks foolishly, it’s not like he was going to go down there and introduce himself to them. The citizens of Haven are still wary of him, they have not forgotten that behind blue eyes lay a monster that can shred Metal Heads to ribbons and slice through Krimson guard armour like it’s made of paper. He doesn’t need new friends, has nothing in common with the youth of today, yet his heart still aches.

Jak’s fingers twitch, hand rising towards the glass, drawing a sad face in the lingering condensation.

Golden light scatters the darkness, Jak startles, gaze drifting to Daxter’s reflection.

“Jak, buddy, are you okay?” it asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine Dax.” Casting one last glance towards the spot where the rebellious teens had been, Jak turns away, finding concerned eyes peering up at him from the bed. “Go back to sleep.” He ordered, tone a little harsher then he meant. Dax doesn’t need to spend another night without sleep, Jak can spend a few hours alone, pace the apartment, read a book on the history of Haven City, maybe slip up to the roof and wait for the sun to rise.

“If you don’t sleep, I don’t sleep!” Daxter’s declared tiny arms crossing over his chest in stubbornness. “What are you doing awake anywhere, Jak? Did you have a nightmare?”

“Nah, just couldn’t sleep.”

“Can I get you anything? Warm yakcow milk? Tea? Hug?”

Jak wonders if he asked would Daxter go down to the port with him? Would he dive into the frigid waters just for the thrill? Would he be disappointed if Jak asked? He's been told that some of his actions could be read as warning signs, cries for help. Is seeking thrills just to feel alive a red flag? Is wanting to be reckless and do things just for the sake of it that big of a deal? Sometimes it's a clear line between a rash decision and a practical one, he's learnt enough from Samos and Torn to know when he's making a bad choice. But other times he is uncertain. It hasn't been easy learning where he begins, and the trauma ends.

“Jak, I may be half asleep, but I can see those brooding shoulders from here.” Daxter’s feet hit the ground, claws tapping on the floorboards as he marches towards him. “What’s going in that head of yours?”

“I was watching some kids swim down at the port,” he gestured to the window, the steam from his breath and impulsively drawn sad face faded, “and I wanted to go join them, but they’re gone now.”

“You trying to replace me?” Daxter demanded, feigning shock.

“No, I just wanted to…” Jak shakes his head, this is stupid. He is supposed to be a soldier, a symbol of hope, not a foolish kid taking midnight swims just for the hell of it. He’s spent so long parading around as an adult that the idea of wanting to be childish feels foreign, sits uncomfortably beneath his skin. Jak doesn’t know how to express that a part of him still yearns to have pure, unabashed fun. He doesn’t have to though, Daxter is miles around of him.

“You want to go for a midnight swim?”

“Kinda, yeah.” There is no need for explanation, for thought or reason, Daxter isn’t asking for clarification, he’s simply offering a chance for mischief.

“Fine, let’s go.”

“Wait.” Surprise and eagerness raise the pitch of his voice, uncertainty making him hesitate. “Really?”

Daxter shrugs, waving Jak off like it’s no big deal when it’s _everything._ “It’s been a while since we did something stupid.”

Jak’s face splits into a wide grin, childish delight bursting to life, scattering any lingering doubts. Daxter bounds up onto his shoulder, motioning for him to go. Jak runs out into the night with excitement pumping through his veins. The air outside is chilled, the water is going to be freezing, and yet Jak does not care. There is something freeing about racing to the edge, diving right in and sinking deep into the dark depths.

The water isn’t pleasant or warm like the ocean on summer evenings, it’s polluted, tastes of chemicals on his tongue and stings at his eyes. It’s not meant for swimming in, it’s tainted by garbage and oil spills from the zoomers that fly over. Jak burst through the surface, taking in a lungful of crisp night air, teeth chattering as shivers set in. Daxter is a miserable heap of orange fur clinging to his shoulder, trembling from head to toe. He’s not going to start a water fight, isn’t going to chase Jak around until the sun creeps over the horizon and they pass out from sheer exhaustion on the shore.

But he’s here, and that’s enough to make this moment memorable.

It was stupid and pointless, but that thrill of diving in, the rush of breaking through the cold surface was worth it. Jak’s just wants to feel alive, and sometimes he messes up, does the wrong thing to get the high, but he’s trying. Hasn’t stopped trying since the day he fell apart in Dead Town. He’s getting better each day, is lowering the walls and allowing people in. Swimming towards the ramp, Jak crawls out of the water, collapsing on the pavement with a wet slap. Droplets of water hit his face as Daxter shakes out his fur before lying down on the ground next to him.

"Well, that was something," Daxter exclaims, loud voice puncturing the stillness of the night.

“Thank you,” Jak sits up, wringing out the hem of his nightshirt. “I know that was kinda dumb, but it was also kinda fun.”

“What are best friends for?” Daxter jerked a trembling thumb at his chest. “But can we go inside and take a hot shower now, please?”

“Yeah, c’mon.” Jak rises, bringing Dater with him so he can cradle the Ottsel against his damp chest. The warmth eases the chill from tired bones. “Maybe when it gets warmer, we can actually go swimming somewhere?”

“Sure, buddy sounds like a plan,” Daxter mumbled sleepily into Jak’s chest. “Just, no more midnight dips in the port, okay?”

Jak doesn’t reply, is too busy prying open the side entrance door of the Naughty Ottsel, cold, wet fingers slipping on the handle. The door opens with a shrieking creak, Daxter groans as the noise pulls him from sleep. It’s just another thing that needs fixing around here. Jak will add it to the ever-growing list. Shutting out the night, Jak quickly makes his way upstairs, leaving wet footprints and a trail of water behind. Daxter’s words are still looping in his mind as he strips off and steps under the blissfully warm spray of water.

He doesn’t know why Dax’s tone bothered him, he could just ask, perhaps it’s just a tired, war-torn mind twisting things out of context. Looking down, he finds Daxter humming contently, lathering every inch of fur in shea butter soap. Jak decides to let the troubled thought wash down the drain, tonight may have not been as joyful as those nights in Sandover, the water bitterly cold instead of pleasantly warm, but he can’t deny that it had been thrilling in the way sneaking out used to be.

It was a moment of pure, sweet fun.

It was a moment worth remembering.

**~~X~~**

_Sorrow comes swiftly after the day at Samos's hut, it leaves Jak quiet and withdrawn, hiding under covers for hours on end. Sorrow unpacks and makes a home where the rage used to be. It darkens the apartment, spreads into the walls like a deadly disease, seeping down into the foundations. Misery hangs in the air with the dust motes and scent of sweat. It becomes a living being, lingering in the shadows, a fiend feeding on tears and despair._

_Anxiety consumes. Panic paralysers. Nightmares increase in volume and horror. Jak sees faceless enemies in the shadows, ghosts in the mirrors. Black thorned vines appear on the walls, spreading out like gnarled fingers. Rot splinters the floorboards, cracks appear in the windows, potted plants fester and die. The apartment falls to ruin in Jak's mind, it shifts from somewhere safe to a place of death and decay._

_One day, while Daxter is sleeping, the vines slither like snakes above where Jak lays, reaching down from the ceiling to form sharp points that glint in the muted light. The bed turns to cold metal beneath Jak's back, cuffs bite at scarred wrists and ankles, the machine above shudders and shakes and the last thing Jak sees is a stream of dark eco._

_Then he screams._

**~~X~~**

Daxter wakes to the smell of coffee and sizzle of bacon, the mouth-watering scent luring him out of the warm comfort of bed. Stumbling the short distance to the kitchenette Daxter climbs up onto the chair, inhaling the steaming mug of coffee the moment Jak places it in his hands. Pleasant, golden mornings, smelling of freshly brewed coffee are becoming a regular thing. The wake of spring has not only bought colour and life to the city but to the apartment.

Peace lily's bloom white flowers, rosemary sprouts from fertile soil, delicate green leaf's return to ferns and chives shoot up in eagerness for spring. The only plants that didn't die during the harsh winter are Jak's lucky bamboo and dragon tree. Daxter used to be bothered by Jak's desire to fill shelves and corners with potted plants, now the colour and sweet earthy smells are welcome. Anything is better than the cold, dark winter just passed.

Things are finally getting better, Jak is improving day by day, and its mornings like this that show how far he’s come. Depression hit hard and fast after the last flames of anger burnt out, Jak plummeted into despair, the reality of what he endured finally hitting home. When Jak didn’t rise or even stir after three days of staring into space, crying helpless and waking from nightmares at all hours, Daxter decided it was time to seek professional help.

Of course, he didn’t actually know anyone qualified to help and he sure as hell wasn’t asking Samos again. So, he did something completely insane. He turned to Torn and Ashelin, and to Daxter’s surprise, they agreed to help without much fuss. Gradually over time, Daxter assembled a team of people to assist in Jak’s healing, he had his very own support network made of old and new friends, and yes, eventually Jak was taken to see a professional, but he wouldn’t have made it that far without their band of misfits and rebels.

Jak got better slowly, painfully, the pieces slotting back into place but not without leaving scares behind. Now he's smiling more, cooking breakfast and tending to his plants and talking when something has upset him. Not all the time, there are setbacks and missteps, but Haven City wasn't built in a day. Daxter cherishes the glittering moments, admires Jak's strength and encourages him when anxious thoughts set in, offering comfort after every nightmare and panic attack.

Jak sets a plate of bacon and eggs on the table before him, he’s not the world’s best cook, tends to get side-tracked which results in burnt food, but it’s the thought that counts. Daxter digs in, grinning at Jak through a mouthful of egg. He returns the smile, it reaches ocean blue eyes, which only adds further warmth to Daxter’s wide smile.

"You know," he said, "I think I'm getting a cold from last night's midnight dip," he sniffled, nose twitching with the promise of a sneeze but the feeling subsided, "though it was kinda fun, stupid, but fun. We need to do things like that more often!" he continued, waving a fork loaded with bacon around in the air. "We've been so focused on helping rebuild the city and taking out the surviving Metal Head's that we've pushed fun and games aside. I mean, killing Metal Heads and blowing up stuff isn't dull, but we should get a less dangerous hobby. Maybe join a club or something. Broaden our horizons, shall we say?

Jak peered over at Daxter, corner of his mouth lifting into a smartass smirk. “I think by that you mean ‘do what normal people do for fun’.”

“Pfft, we’re not normal, we’re never gonna be normal,” Daxter remarked, waving away the suggestion. Normal was reserved for people who weren’t changed by dark eco and flung five hundred years into the future. “But I’d like to go bowling or play mini golf. Hell, I’d settle for a boring day in a coffee shop watching the world pass me by.” He sighed dreamily, before concluding. “We don’t always have to be on the go, Jak.”

“I’m not running anymore, Dax.”

“I know you’re not buddy, and I’m very proud of you for that,” he pats Jak’s hand reassuringly, “and that’s not what I meant, this Ottsel just wants to kick back and relax, is all.”

“You can Daxter.” Jak remarked. “You don’t have to watch my every move or accompany me everywhere. I’m okay, really?” he offered his famous renegade grin in reassurance, “I know when to ask myself if I’m being impulsive, I know how to handle a panic attack. I’m not better, but I’m close, Dax. You can take a step back.”

Lashes flutter, chasing away tears, Daxter swallows the lump lodged in his throat. “I know that, buddy, but as your blood bother and best friend, it’s my duty to watch over you. Plus, I’m older, so therefore I am wiser.” He winks, playfulness ebbing as the conversation shifts. “It’s not that I don’t trust you Jak or think you’re incapable of taking care of yourself, but we both know what happens when you get overwhelmed, and this city is full of triggers. I know you hate it, but until the doc says that it’s okay for you to go places alone, we’ve gotta stick together.”

Jak sighs, stabbing at the egg, it’s gooey centre spilling out over the plate. “Fine.”

Daxter squeezes Jak’s calloused fingers, hating to see him down heartened. “Sig’s in town, maybe the two of you can hunt down some new trophies for the Ottsel?”

Jak perked up at the suggestion. “It has been a while since I saw Sig and there are still a few stingers hanging around the pumping station. Not exactly trophy worthy but it would be nice to get out, enjoy this lovely weather we’re having.”

“There you go!” Daxter raises his coffee in salute “You and Sig can go Metal Head hunting and I can put my feet up and relax.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Nah, I trust Sig with you,” he revealed “he’s a good guy, nicer than that other asshole… what’s his face? The guy with the tattoos and sounds like he ate gravel for breakfast for several years straight.”

“I think I know the guy,” Jak played along, taking a mouthful of food, chewing thoughtfully before adding. “We can still do something together if you like?”

Daxter’s intertest peaks, Haven City has flourished to life while the world slumbered, bistros and restaurants, as well as a handful of stores, have opened in the newly rebuilt section of the water slums, and the Arcade in Maine Town reopened three weeks ago. The city is full of fancy and flashy places. Citizens have come out of hiding, are enjoying themselves for the first time in decades. Praxis had cut Haven off from the rest of the world, locked the doors of movie theatres and music stores, pulling all the money towards military and building walls to keep the people from escaping. Ashelin wasn’t just bringing stability back to the city, but enjoyment too. 

“Well that flashy new arcade could be fun?” he suggested, excitement bubbling beneath his skin. “Oh, and I’ve wanted to take you to The Muse for ages!”

 “The what?”

“The Muse, Jak!” he exclaimed, “it’s only the coolest burger joint in town, and the milkshakes are to die for!”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said, lips tugging into a warm smile.

“Perfect!” Daxter rubs his hands together gleefully, grinning from ear to ear, it’s been such a long, dark winter, it’s nice to finally see the light.

**~~X~~**

_Grey snow catches in Daxter’s whisker’s as he trudges through the snow laden streets, coming to a stop before rusted door, hand hovering in hesitation. Torn’s the last person Daxter thought he’d be seeking for help, but he is an ex Krimson Guard and those bullshit ‘structure’ building exercises did help Jak all those weeks ago. As pointless as scrubbing walls seemed to Daxter it did help get Jak out of the apartment and blow off some steam._

_Bitter and angry Jak complied, completed all of Torn’s tasks without much fuss, though he did have his own reason for doing so. Still, Daxter was grateful, that distraction probably kept Jak from spiralling. Now, the depression has set in, sorrow an ever-present shadow looming over them. He thought Jak would start getting better after breaking down at Samos’s hut, but he’s not, he’s getting worse. Jak’s fallen into the black sea of despair and torment, and Daxter is unable to carry him back to shore._

_He needs help,_ they _need help and Torn owes them._

_Hell, this whole city owes them._

_Daxter knocks twice, shivering as an icy breeze whips about the streets, pathetic attempts at snowflakes blow about like a swarm of deformed moths. The snow in the city is grey from fumes and soot, stomped down and swept to the curbs, gathering trash and debris. Torn lives in a pretty shitty part of the city for the new Freedom League commander. It’s as rough and harsh as his attitude, cold and uninviting like the blue of his eyes. Daxter hopes he’s is right about this, bringing in an outsider feels like the wrong thing to do, especially after their recent betrayals._

_But desperate times call for drastic measures._

_The door swings inward, warm air rushing out, briefly scattering the chill from Daxter’s bones. Torn stares out at the street, ice blue eyes scanning the environment for danger._

_Daxter clears his throat, arms waving about in the air as he says, with a little too much volume. “Down here, tough guy.”_

_Thin lips twist into a snarl, annoyed glare lowering to meet Daxter’s eyes. “What the hell do you want rat?”_

_"Nice to see you too," Daxter waved him off, squeezing past Torn and into the warmth of the rundown townhouse. Daxter does a quick check of his surroundings, there isn’t much evidence to suggest Torn is secretly a serial killer parading around as a rebel leader, but one can never be too careful, or nosey in Daxter’s case. He takes note of scuffed and marked floorboards, gaze sweeping up to the cracked and cobweb riddled ceiling. The room is sparsely furnished yet it's cluttered with gun parts, books, coffee cups and empty beer bottles. The only hint of colour are two olive green velvet armchairs and a crystal bottle of amber liquid that sits amid takeout containers and wrappers on a cracked glass coffee-table._

_Great, the guy he's seeking help from has a drinking problem, never cleans and has even worse taste in home décor then Jak._

_Great fucking plan this was._

_But then he notices something, there are two sets of boot prints, one far smaller than there other and a second sweep of the room reveals flashes of crimson clothing. Torn is not alone. Listening, ears twitching Daxter picks up the sound of running water, sniffs the air and smells freshly brewed coffee and a lingering scent of Sandal Wood. Ottsel's never forget a smell, and it's damn obvious from the red top left strewn on the floor who's in the shower upstairs. In conclusion, the is one fierce red-headed woman taking a shower upstairs, the evidence suggesting all those swirling rumours are true._

_Torn’s either going to kill him for interrupting, or Daxter can use this to advantage._

_“Nice place you got here,” he shoots him a mischievous grin, jumping up to make himself comfortable on one of the armchairs. “Bit dull, and maybe you should get a maid.” he pokes at Ashelin’s top, which has been careless tossed onto the armrest, can practically hear Torn’s teeth grinding. “Bet Red is used to something a little fancier.”_

_“You have three seconds to tell me why you are here, or I am going to grab you by that scrawny neck of yours and haul your orange ass back out into the street,” Torn barks, upstairs the pipes shudder, running water ebbing to a trickle before a tense silence fills the room._

_“I need your help,” Daxter’s too tired to keep up the charade, he just wants to have a few moments where he doesn’t have to worry about Jak running off or shutting down. He doesn’t know which is worse, watching Jak vanish into the snow-covered city or seeing him disappear into his mind. “Jak needs your help.”_

_“Why, what’s he done now?” Torn asked gruffly, slumping onto to the chair opposite Daxter._

_“It’s not what he’s done, it’s what was done to him!” Daxter’s arms fail about, nervous energy making him restless._

_“I can’t undo what the Baron did, Daxter,” Torn said ruefully, pouring himself a drink._

_“I know that!” he snapped. “I’m not asking you to do the impossible here, I just really need some assistance with this whole healing process,” his voice takes on a frantic edge, “and as much I hate to admit it, you seem to be the best person qualified.”_

_“I am an ex-soldier Daxter, not a psychologist.” He pointed out, shaking his head as he slumped back in the seat. “I don’t know what you expect me to do.”_

_“Listen here gravel breath, Jak risked life and limp repeatedly for this city,” he rises, strings pulled by a raging fire, “we both did! We walked right into a tomb full of death, we fought entire Metal Head armies, not to mention we killed Kor, thus saving the entire fucking city from death and damnation. Jak was forced to fight the Baron, twice, was antagonised by Erol, who by the way, imprisoned Jak and gleefully enjoyed mocking him for the very thing he helped create.” He’s getting dizzy, small lungs straining under the steady stream of words that have longed to be set free._

_“I’ve spent every night for the last three months waking to the sound of terrified, no, petrified screams! I’ve had to witness my best friend turn into something else and slash people to ribbons. I’ve had to watch the person I grew up with suffer and fall apart all the while I’ve helpless to do anything.” He is yelling, shaking from the anger that pours out of him, eyes burning with unshed tears. “I watch Jak build and break nearly every damn day! I comfort him after every nightmare, and I listen to him tell me about the God-awful, fucked up things Praxis and Erol did to him.” Fire burns out, voice lowering as a parched throat tightens in grief. “So, for the love of the Precursor’s please help me fix my best friend.”_

_Torn stares at Daxter, jaw hanging in shock. Collecting himself Torn leans forward, handing the glass of strong-smelling bourbon to Daxter. He takes a swig, liquid burning on its way down, pooling uncomfortably in his churning gut. A delicate hand rests on his shivering shoulder, glass plucked from his fingers, replaced with a steaming mug of coffee. Ashelin appears before him, perching on the edge of the coffee table, expression softer than it’s ever been._

_“Tell us exactly what’s going on Daxter, and we’ll do our best to help.”_

_Anger rushes out in a shaky breath, relief settling the churning storm, allowing some of the anxiety and tension to dissipate from tired bones. Sipping the coffee to wash away the burn of bourbon, Daxter searches for the right words. There is so much going on with Jak, mercurial moods, nightmares, panic attacks, he doesn't know where to start. But he has to begin somewhere, pick a place, choose a concern and share the fear that has made a home within his heart._

_“I can’t reach him, he has these spells where he just shuts down, like he’s there, but he’s not,” he explained, fingers tightening on the china mug to prevent the hot liquid from spilling over, “he won’t shower or talk to me, barely eats. It’s happened before but never for this long. I don’t know what to do.” He looks from Torn to Ashelin, heart pounding like a drum in his chest, threatening to beat its way out. “Keira couldn’t get him to snap out of it and Samos, well Samos isn’t exactly Jak’s favourite person right now.”_

_“When did this start?” Ashelin asked._

_“About three days ago,” he replied, choosing not to reveal that he was pulled from sleep by a terrified scream, eyes opening to find Jak clawing at the walls with black-tipped nails, skin flickering grey, pupils blown wide in terror. It took him an age to calm Jak and ever since he hadn’t been quite right, was stumbling through the days, a shadow taking up space. “I think a nightmare set him off, now I can’t get him to snap out of it.”_

_Ashelin glanced over her shoulder to Torn, he nods at her, lips stretching into a thin line as he scrubs a hand over his tattooed face. Ashelin turns green eyes back to Daxter, rising in one fluid motion, looking regal and authoritative despite only being dressed in a tattered, oversized t-shirt. “Torn will accompany you back to the Ottsel and bring Jak back here until there is improvement in his mood,” she announced, “I’m going to reach out to a friend of mine, they’ll be more equipped to help Jak through this.”_

_“Wait, wait-” Daxter waved a hand frantically about, grateful for the offer but not liking the idea of separating from Jak “-just so you know,” he points a finger at Torn, “wherever Jak goes, I go, so you better have room for me here.”_

_Torn groans, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “I figured as much whiskers, and trust me, I’m not happy about this, but from the sounds of things Jak needs monitoring and someone big enough to look after him when he’s in a dissociative state, so we’re just gonna have to grit our teeth and get through this.”_

_“Who is with Jak now?” Ashelin enquired before Daxter could retort._

_“Tess and Keira, I’m not stupid enough to leave him alone, he could hurt himself_.” He could hurt himself on purpose _is what he doesn't say, but_ that _fear unpacked weeks ago, lingered and darkened as times went by. Jak was strong, was a fighter but right now the trauma was stronger. There was also the concern that the dark eco played a part in all of this. Praxis said it would drive Jak made, the Oracle foretold it would consume him, that alone was enough to keep Daxter awake at night imaging the worst. He’d seen how dark eco twisted people, knew it warped minds and spreads like a deadly disease, destroying everything it touched. And yet, Jak was still alive,_ barely _._

_“Could… could the dark eco be doing this or at least making it worse?”_

_“It’s possible.” Ashelin started pacing, collecting empty bottles and discard clothing as she went. “It’s evident Jak is suffering from Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder, but from what I know of dark eco I wouldn’t rule it out. We know it’s had a physical impact on Jak and there are plenty of stories about dark eco twisting minds. I’ll dive into the dark warrior program files, maybe knowing exactly what my father did to him will help us understand what the eco is doing. I’ll consult The Shadow… I mean Samos, as well.”_

_“It’s all worth looking into.” Torn agreed, catching her delicate wrist as she bent to collect another bottle from the table. “Sweetheart, why don’t you go get dressed, and I’ll head out with Daxter.”_

_“Right, of course.” She stands, straightening like a soldier ready for battle. “I’ll come back this evening.” Without another word she strutted away. Daxter let out a low whistle of admiration which earnt him a death glare from Torn._

_“Wow, easy,” he holds a hand up in surrender, “I admire her okay, she’s the kinda woman who gets shit done.”_

_"That she is." Torn spared him a brief grin before getting to his feet. "Alright, time to go, you can tidy up this place when we get back."_

_“You know, when I said get a maid, I didn’t mean me!” he retorted, jumping down onto the floor with unnecessary force._

_“I’ll take what I can get.” He shrugged, pulling open the front door, a gust of chilled air greeting them. “Let’s go fuzzball, we’ve got a hero to save.”_

**~~X~~**

Jak’s starting to feel optimistic agaim, each passing day, as the weather warms and the world emerges from its winter slumber, has the fire rekindling. Getting this far hasn’t been easy, there were times he swore he’d never feel anything but rage and sorrow, but at last, the worst of the storm has passed. The eyes reflected in the bathroom mirror are a little less haunted, are blue like the ocean on a calm, clear day. Able to see the world with hope and a new sense of curiosity.

The heroic village boy glistens in blue depths, an echo that no longer feels like a painful reminder of what was lost. 

Jak’s gaze travels away from his reflection, tracing the familiar path to the yellow sticky note taped to the right corner, it’s edges curling in from the humid air. Jak smooths a hand over it, revealing the message scrawled on it in slanted print. **Don’t forget your pills!!!** It reads, a grinning face added below. At the left corner of the mirror is a blue sticky note that is ever changing, always scribbled with a positive affirmation. Daxter leaves these things all over the apartment, tapped to the fridge, stuck on kitchenware, tapped to the bookshelf and left on pillows. Jak plucks the note free, fingers tracing over the three words that tug at his heart.

**You Are Enough!**

Smiling, he folds the note in half, tucking it into the yakcow leather hip pouch. Opening the cabinet Jak finds another, green this time, stuck to the pill bottle. **It’s going to be a good day!** It promises. At first, it felt unnatural taking medication, used to home remedies curing even the most stubborn colds Jak never considered medicine could be used to help the mind. Could tame the lingering effects of dark eco and stabilise his moods. Things really do change.

Swallowing the tablet, Jak puts the bottle away and closes the cabinet door, fidgeting with his goggles for a moment. Daxter is waiting for him, they’re going to The Muse for lunch, which isn’t a big deal, expect Jak’s anxious as hell. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, but it’s always unpleasant, makes fingers twitch, and his heart beat furiously as sweat beads on the back of his neck. He’s felt less apprehensive sloshing through the sewers, yet the thought of stepping outside leaves his chest tightening. 

With a deep breath, followed by an unsteady exhale, Jak pulls himself together, stepping out to meet Daxter, who is eagerly awaiting him.

“Bout time!” he exclaimed, “I was beginning to think you drowned.”

“In the sink?” a green brow arched in amusement.

“Well, you never know,” Daxter shrugs nonchalantly, but Jak can hear the undercurrent of concern.

A few seconds too long in the bathroom has left Daxter worried. A pause stretched out over a minute, and Daxter is already assuming the worst. His trauma has traumatised Daxter, and it makes Jak feel incredibly guilty. He bends to Daxter’s height, skin feeling prickly and strange in the outfit gifted to him over the winter by friends. Apparently, a makeover was part of the recovery process. The fit of tight denim is unusual, the decorative holes in his garments seemingly pointless but Jak must admit he doesn’t hate the look. Still, he wears his red scarf and goggles for comfort and familiarity. Pushing aside the discomfort he focuses on Daxter, offering what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“I’m okay, Dax,” Jak speaks those two words a lot, to Dax, to Keira, to everyone who asks. He whispers them late at night when the shadows come out to play, when the panic swells and screams. On repeat, the words replay, said until they become nonsense, spoken until they became the truth. “Are you?”

“Of course, baby!” Daxter smooths his ears back with one quick motion, shooting Jak a grin beaming with pearly whites. “Ready to feast too, so let’s get going!”

“Alright, alright, we’re going, don’t start chewing on my ear.”

“Oh, very funny, Jak.” Daxter leaps onto Jak’s shoulder. “Maybe we leave the comedic relief to me?”

"Right." Jak pockets his keys and wallet, fingers brushing over the note, lips quirking into a smile. The door whines as he opens it, hinges gripping and sticking in protest. Jak tugs harder, making a mental note to fix it later. As he steps into the hallway, which always smells of beer and mildew, he notices the door is no longer crimson red, it's blue like the night sky, groves and indents creating their own galaxy. "Did you paint the door?"

“Yeah, it was ugly, and all the paint was chipping off.” Daxter’s voice is tight, carrying a wealth of emotions. He’s trying to sound casual like they are discussing the weather or what to have for dinner, but Jak told him about the red door, about the things that were done to him once it closed. Daxter didn’t just repaint it because it was ugly and chipped, paint streaked with claw marks from the time a panic attack caused a transformation. Jak slashed at the door until claws shrunk to blunt nails that snagged and ripped until wood and skin were gleaming another shade of red. “Are you just noticing?”

“Yeah, sorry, it’s always dark in here,” Jak pulls the door shut, hand lingering on the knob. “Thank you.”

“It’s okay,” Daxter said, tail wrapping around Jak’s neck, a habit that comforts them both. “You have enough reminders.”

Tears blur Jak’s vision, chest swelling with warmth and gratitude. “You really are the best Daxter.”

“Well, yeah, I am pretty amazing.” He jumped to the ground, striking a super-empowered pose. “Now, enough being sappy, can we go?”

Jak shakes his head fondly, bending down to sweep Daxter up in a crushing hug. He owes Daxter so much, if it weren’t for him he would be dead, killed by the Baron, another failed experiment tossed into an unmarked grave. He would have sunken into the darkness if it weren’t for Daxter’s admirable ability to never lose hope. Daxter saved his life, and Jak is enterally grateful. 

“You’re blowing your tough guy image here, buddy,” Daxter gasped, patting him on the back.

“Mine or yours?” he chuckled, releasing Daxter so that he could scurry back to his perch.

“You are the world’s biggest softie,” Daxter declared, smiling warmly, “good to see some things haven’t changed.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he quipped, “I do have an image to uphold.”

“Oh, don’t sweat it, brother! Your secret is safe with me.”

“I can always count on you, Dax.” Jak returned the smile, feeling the anxiety ebb, giving him enough courage to descend the stairs and step out into the bustling city. 

**~~X~~**

_Jak’s starting to feel like a prisoner again, like a lab rat that is being poked and prodded, shocked just to see it writhe in agony. He’s trapped in a place that is not home, not anything remotely close to the sanctuary built out of plants, paper lanterns and mismatched furniture. He feels betrayed, untethered, drifting in a churning sea of misery and memories. Sleep has evaded him at every turn tonight, the glaring red numbers from the clock on the nightstand read quarter past one. Daxter snores softly, snow falls daintily from the sky outside the window that doesn’t open._

_Jak stares at the clock until the numbers blur into red eyes. Fingers twitch, wanting to wrap around the cold metal of the morph gun, but the gun is back at the apartment. Frustrated, Jak picks at the tape on his arm, teeth gritted against the memory. It was only a blood test, a quick prick, nothing compared to the agony of a dark eco treatment, but his skin held so many reminders that just the mere mention of seeing a physician trigged a panic attack._

_He didn’t want tests, to be treated like a fragile, sick child, to be subjected to questions and prescribed pills to sleep. He had turned to Daxter with pleading eyes, imploring him to put a stop to this, but Daxter looked away, sided with Torn, breaking Jak’s already fragile heart. Enraged, he thought about running, grabbing his still packed bag and shimming out the window when no one was watching. Jak knew how to disappear, could hide away for days in an abandoned building or in the depths of Haven Forest. He could run away, but it was the tears in Daxter’s eyes that made him stay._

_Tearing the tape off, Jak looks down at his skin in the silver light of the moon, calloused fingertips tracing over the cluster of scares, following the pinpricks along his forearm. Shaky fingers find thick, raised lines wrapping around a tender wrist. The physician frowned when he prodded the area, feathery brows furrowing deeper when it pulled a hiss from Jak’s lips. Daxter snapped at him, teeth bared and fur on end, the elderly man, lurched backwards in shock._

_“Apologies,” he said, pushing thick-rimmed glasses back up a bony nose as he composed himself, “it appears the break has healed incorrectly, I’d like to get an x-ray to get a better view of the damage.”_

_Jak flinched, cradling his wrist against his chest. “No! I’m fine, it’s not a big deal.”_

_“It’s clearly causing you discomfort-”_

_“-We’ll deal with it another time, doc,” Torn interrupted, “the kids been through a lot, let’s not add any more stress.”_

_“Right, of course.” The physician fiddled with the stethoscope around his neck, grey eyes darting between Jak and Daxter. “I’d like to do some blood work, and I think some anti-anxiety medication would be beneficial to help with those sleepless nights.”_

_"Alright, sounds like a start." Torn's cold, heavy hand came to rest on Jak's shoulder, it might have meant to be comforting, but it felt like a shackle, a silent 'don't move, and we won't have any problems'._

_Jak looked to Daxter for help, glistening blue eyes skirting away, a knife twisting in his gut. Jak gritted his teeth against the angry words teetering on the tip of his tongue, shuddering as he repressed the urge to run. There’s no escapes. If he tried to flee Torn would wrestle him to the floor, drag him back kicking and screaming if he had too. Hell, Torn would have had to carry him downstairs when the physician arrived if it weren’t for Jak’s own stubborn sense of pride._

_He didn’t speak to either of them for the rest of the afternoon, felt tense and prickly, breath catching every so often like he was going to cry. He refused to shed a tear, refused to speak, hid away until Torn called them down for dinner, which was a silent affair. Now he’s too tired to be angry, can see they were only trying to help, that Daxter is scared and searching for anything that will keep them afloat in this wild black sea._

_Restless, Jak tosses under the covers, chest aching in guilt. A tentative hand reaches out over the invisible divider, shaking Daxter’s small frame until he wakes._

_“Wh… Jak, buddy, what’s up?” he wiggles towards Jak, blindly searching for him in the dark. “Can’t sleep?”_

_“Something like that,” he mumbled._

_“You should take one of those pills the doc gave you,” Daxter was gone in a flash, light scattering the darkness a second latter._

_Jak squinted, retreating under the covers, regretting waking Daxter. He wanted some company, not a little white pill. He hated being sedated, loathed the way it made him vulnerable, the way it made the world tilt and wilt. They used to sedate the prisoners during the beginning of the dark eco treatments, not when they strapped them to the chair, no that would have been too merciful, but weeks later when the eco burnt in their veins and boiled in their blood. When they screamed at things that weren’t there, clawed at walls, their own skin until it was bloody and raw._

_Jak shudders at the memory, stomach churning, skin prickling with the echo of needles slipping into flesh. The madness stopped the day Jak finally gave in and started channelling the dark eco, it didn’t remove all the pain, but it kept him alive. He would have died like the others if it weren’t for his unique abilities. The bed dips, signalling Daxter’s return, Jak groans, curling up impossibly small like it will fool his friend into thinking he is no longer here._

_“Jak, come on,” he pleads, “this will help you.”_

_“I don’t want it,” he bites out, voice full of gravel, “and you know why.”_

_“I do, and I understand why you don’t want to take it, but tonight you need to,” he rips the covers off, exposing Jak to the bitterly cold air. “You are safe, nothings gonna get you, so please, Jak, just try it.”_

_Jak peers up at Daxter, anger and reasoning jostling for position. The physician explained how the medication worked, assured Jak it wouldn’t render him unconscious, but rather calm his troubled mind. Jak doubted it would bring clarity, nothing seemed to clear the fog from his mind these days, but perhaps a decent night’s sleep would do the world of good. It didn’t change the fact he was terrified, heart racing at just the thought of slipping under. What if he had a nightmare that he could not wake from? What if Metal Heads attacked and he was unable to protect himself. What if the world floated away and he got so very lost in the dark?_

_“Dax,” the name rips from a tightening throat, voice layered in a wealth of unspoken emotions._

_“Shh, hey, I’m sorry, buddy,” Daxter soothed, “you’re okay, I won’t force you to take it.”_

_“Not your fault,” he mumbled, brushing tears angrily from flushed cheeks, “I know it will help, I’m just afraid.”_

_“I know, but I promise you don’t have to be, you’re safe, we’re safe.” Small, nimble fingers run through tangled locks. “Hey, did I mention how proud of you I am? I know today was difficult, but you did amazingly!”_

_“I’m sorry I was a jerk earlier,” Jak admitted, relaxing under Daxter’s soothing touch. “I know you and Torn were only trying to help, I just wish it didn’t involve needles.”_

_“I know buddy, but I hear vitamin deficiency is a real problem these days!” He is all motion and pep, carrying on just for show. “People just aren’t getting enough fruits and vegetables.”_

_Jak chuckled softly, feeling the sorrow ebb ever so slightly._

_“What the hell are you two doing up?”_

_Jak startled, eyes darting to where Torn was leaning in the doorway, glaring at them with more annoyance then his rumpled appearance should allow. Jak isn’t sure why Torn is helping them, it’s not like there is an abundance of compassion coming from the ex-guard, but his no-nonsense, tough love had plucked Jak from the arms of despair. Beneath the tattoos and icy exterior is a kind heart. Torn risked his life to form a rebel army to fight the Baron, he cared deeply for this city and his men, he just had a strange way of showing it._

_“I couldn’t sleep, so we just started talking,” Jak explained, “sorry, we’ll keep it down.”_

_“You have pills for that,” Torn retorted, “take one and get some damn shut-eye.”_

_Daxter goes to protest, but Jak slaps a hand over his mouth. “Right, I forgot. Sorry.”_

_Torn’s eyes narrow, lips twisting in thought, Jak sees the exact moment the pieces slot together. Torn’s arms drop to his side, stance softening. Clearing his throat, he straightens up, fidgeting awkwardly on the spot. “Look, I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but I know what sleepless nights are like, all those racing thoughts keeping you awake.” Momentarily he stares off into the distance, past playing out behind blue eyes. Blink, and it’s gone. “Sometimes you just gotta bite the bullet or swallow the pill.” He smirks like he’s proud of that. “It’s worth a try, Jak, trust me.”_

_"I do trust you," he looks to Daxter, who holds out his hand, fingers uncurling to reveal a tiny white pill. With a deep breath, Jak picks up the tablet with unsteady fingers, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, hesitating._

_“Here.” Torn hands him the glass of water from the nightstand._

_“Thanks” Jak accepts the glass, watching the water slosh from side to side. He swallows the swell of anxiety, chasing it down with a mouthful of cold water and a bitter pill. He doesn’t feel any different, but the effects will set in soon._

_“Get some sleep you two,” Torn ordered before flicking off the lamp and moving with ease back into the hallway, where the glow of the light from his room would guide his way._

_“You feel okay, buddy?”_

_“Yeah, I guess.” He brings the covers up to his chin, feeling Daxter worm his way close, body curling into the warmth of his chest._

_“Alright,” Daxter yawns, “Lemme know if you need me.”_

_“I will, night, Dax.”_

_“Night, Jak.”_

_Lulled into a sense of safety by the comfort of the covers and weight of Daxter, heavy eyelids finally flutter closed. Racing thoughts scatter, limbs grow heavy as the drug laces through his bloodstream, carrying him into a peaceful slumber._

**~~X~~**

The city is bustling in the wake of spring, excitement electric in the air as citizens move about freely, without fear. There is still much work to be done, it will take years for Haven to fully recover, but the economy has had a boom with trade reopening to faraway cities. For a time, it felt like Haven was the only place left standing, the rest of the world lost to war and famine, but there is life beyond these towering walls, across the vast stretch of ocean is a world unexplored. Ashelin reaching out to the forgotten cities has proven to be the right choice given the sudden growth of Haven City’s venues and stores.

Enjoyment returns with lost relics in the shape of movies and music, delicious foods and games to play. Daxter is at home in this wild, fast-paced technology advanced world, loves the endless options of deep-fried food and the wide variety of music. Movies are a blast, so much better than the boring old slideshows Samos used to force them to watch. Praxis built walls and told lies, making the people believe the world beyond was destroyed, this city the only place left. That may have been the case a long time ago, but across the sea, miles and miles from here are thriving cities, Metal Head’s nothing but a pest.

These distant cities would have fallen to ruins had Kor not known that Jak and the Precursor stone could be found here, and they surely would have perished had Kor succussed. Metal Head armies would have crossed the sea, killing and destroying everything in their path. Daxter still has nightmares about the day the Rift Gate opened, wakes with a beating heart and a stomach rolling with guilt. He’s not the only one haunted by that day, he knows Jak feels responsible for what happened to Sandover, but it’s not his fault.

It’s not _their_ fault.

They have been pawns in a game for far too long. The only games Daxter is interested in playing are the shiny ones at the arcade. This day has been a long time coming and damn it, he is going to enjoy it. He just hopes Jak is having a nice time, he’s been rather quiet since arriving at The Muse, eyes darting around the room, sweeping for enemies. Daxter finds them a table tucked away in the corner that also gives a clear view of the entrance and exit. The war may be over, but Jak’s still living like he’s under threat, but he’s here, out in a public place that isn’t the Ottsel and that is progress.

When a board looking waitress ambles over to the table, twisting a bubble gum pink curl around her finger Daxter orders their food, since Jak has neglected to look at the menu in favour of pouring salt on the table. The waitress, whose name tag reads Ripple, gives Jak a nasty, judgmental glare before walking away. It doesn’t matter where they go, people know who they are, and it’s not as glorious as it sounds. Most people are apprehensive, choosing to look away or take off like they’ve just seen a horde of Metal Heads.

They really need to shake off their bad boy reputation or at the very least crush the still circling rumours that Jak is dangerous and unpredictable. And, okay, he has been in the past, especially when he was recovering, but between seeing a therapist and the antidepressant Jak’s moods have stabilised. Samos finally made himself useful and came up with the idea to treat the lingering effects of dark eco with a green eco infused antidepressants. About damn time too.

The was no reversing what the Baron did, the dark eco was woven into every fibre and atom of Jak’s being, even when the levels were low, it would build again, a cancer that would spread from organs and tissue, destroying everything in its path if not channelled. Daxter didn’t fully understand everything Samos said, and when he went back to see the Oracle, ready to demand they fix Jak, he found only a statue, silent and eerie. Typical Precursors, never there when they were needed. But whatever the hell Samos and the feather brow doc brewed was enough to alleviate Jak’s pain and ease his troubled mind.

It was the turning point that was desperately needed, not that everything was sunshine and rainbows straight after, but things got better. Daxter can look back and see how far Jak’s come, there’s still rivers, roads and valleys to go, but he can see the difference. Jak’s never going to be the boy who liked collecting bugs and building blanket forts, but he’s also no longer the angry, revenge-driven rebel or the anxiety-riddled boy screaming at shadows and clawing at walls.

He’s fleeting heartfelt smiles, moments of sadness and fear, shaky hands and deadpan snark. He’s all these different things that are both new and old, familiar and unfamiliar. He’s home and the very best friend anyone could ask for. He’s brave and kind, jagged and jaded, hopeful and sorrowful. But above all else is he is alive and what truly matters is Jak wants to _live._ There was a time the fight died out, burning coals the only thing getting Jak through the days.

In the darkest hours, when things were at the worst and hope was a husk, a childish dream, Daxter feared he’d lose Jak. Feared the pain and the memories and the dark eco would drive him to the edge and throw him right over. In these moments, when Daxter was wracked with grief and hollowed out, he knew he’d follow Jak into the dark. But the fire, the spark returned. Daxter sent fear away on winter winds, refilled his lungs with hope and now, at last, he can breathe again.

**~~X~~**

_Daxter’s losing hope, it’s turning to ash in his hands, fire growing as cold as the days. Outside a storm rages, windows shuddering, snow threatening to bury them alive. He is ignorant to the conversation currently taking place, transfixed by the raging weather, fragile heart tightening in his chest with every gust of wind that screams through the house like a wailing ghost. He can’t even see the neighbouring townhouses anymore, there’s nothing but violent white fury._

_A soft touch draws Daxter back to the round table, glancing to his left he is met with emerald eye glistening with concern. Daxter flashes Keira a fleeting smile, it does little to fool her, but her attention returns to her father. Samos is babbling on as always, speaking in riddles and waving his staff around to emphasise the words like it will help the surrounding people understand what the hell he is saying. Keira slumps forward, head propped up by her hand, she might be a doting daughter, but there is irritation found more often in her gaze these days._

_She hasn’t completely forgiven him for not telling them about the fucking awful future that awaited them, Daxter stands with her one hundred per cent on this. A little warning would have been nice, and yeah, maybe if they knew what awaited them, they might have set the rift rider and gate on fire, but a choice would have been greatly appreciated. Hell, even some sagely advice that would have prepared them for this cruel, cruel world would have gone a long way._

_The past is in the past and Samos is the only one who knows enough about dark eco to help Jak, so Daxter grits his teeth and listens, and Keira bites her tongue and plays the dutiful daughter. Above the roof tremors like it's going to fly away, walls shaking like this place is about to come crashing down like a house of cards. Samos shuts up, and Ashelin rises to speak like this is an important council meeting and not a round table of bored expression and tired eyes, revealing her findings on the dark warrior program._

_It’s not pretty. Daxter’s stomach churns with each recount of horrible experiments Jak endured, trembling with rage and disgust. It feels wrong hearing about these harrowing events from Ashelin, it should be Jak telling them, choosing if he wanted too, but with his health declining they had no choice but to unearth his brutal past. Daxter reasons with himself, Jak wouldn’t have known what the tests were for, wouldn’t have the details that are needed for Samos and the doc to make a treatment._

_It doesn’t erase the guilt though._

_By the time Ashelin sits down his head is spinning, stomach churning the way it does at sea. Keira is silent and pale beside him, eyes shimmering, chest heaving like she’s about to cry or fly into a fit of rage. It's Torn who notices their distress, who sends them into the living room like they are children, unable to handle this responsibility. If Daxter weren't so shell shocked, he would have fought to stay, would have yelled and kicked but there is a gruesome horror show unfolding in his mind, and if he doesn't sit down,_ breathe, _then he’s going to break._

_He slumps next to Keira on the worn-out armchair, eying off the bottle of bourbon._

_“We need to do something!” Keira announced, shooting to her feet._

_“Keira, we’re doing everything we can,” Daxter reasoned._

_"It's not good enough," she cried, pacing restlessly, hands tapping an irregular rhythm on her thighs._

_Daxter is painfully aware that it’s not good enough, none of this is good enough, and nothing is helping. Jak’s miserable, is in immense pain, and each time Daxter thinks they’ve made a breakthrough he comes crashing back down. He isn’t strong or smart enough to fix Jak, Keira can’t mend him the way she does a zoomer, they are just stupid kids unable to help their best friend. The wind howls, a distant echo of metal hitting metal has Daxter’s fur standing on end._

_He fucking hates storms._

_Back in Sandover, whenever a big storm rolled through Jak would build him a blanket fort for them to hide in. Jak never judged him for his fear of thunderstorms or deep water or the depths of the jungle. Jak was always there, silently promising that it was safe, that he'd protect him from whatever danger lurked in the shadows. Daxter is struck with an idea, ears twitching with a flicker of hope. He is not helpless, hope will not be lost, he is Jak's best friend, and if anyone can get him through this nightmare, it's him._

_“Keira, battle station!” he rockets to his feet, a soldier ready to fight. “I want every blanket and pillow you can find.”_

_Keira spares him a fleeting look of confusion, wheels turning as understanding dawns on her, determination taking over. “On it.”_

_Efficient as ever she sets to work, disappearing upstairs in search of blankets while Daxter collects every pillow in sight. Half an hour later and they have constructed a haphazard fort in the middle of Torn's living room. It's a fabulous work of art if you ask Daxter, not as brightly coloured as the ones from those stormy nights as Torn clearly hates anything bright or cheerful, but it will do the trick. Daxter leaves Keira to add the finishing touches while he goes to get Jak._

_Upstairs the air is crisp and biting when he tip-toes into their shared room. He finds Jak huddled under a mountain of blankets, feigning sleep. Usually, he’d leave, let Jak emerge when he felt ready, but not today. Today he’s stepping into the dark and pulling Jak free, even if it’s only temporary. He jumps up onto the bed, crawling towards the back of Jak’s head, carding fingers through tangled hair in a gentle attempt to rouse Jak._

_“What do you want Daxter?” he grumbled, no real bit to his tone though his words are slightly slurred from the lingering effect of the sleeping medication._

_“I have something to show you,” he tugs at the covers, pulling them off to expose Jak to the cold air. He sleeps in oversized sweatshirts and loose pants, but it’s still enough of a shock to make him shiver and snarl._

_“Daxter, what the hell?” Jak sits up, sending daggers his way._

_“Please?” he gives Jak a pleading look, tugging on his sleeve the way he would as a child demanding to be listened to. Jak always listened, Jak dove into the ocean, swam out into Lurker Shark infested waters to save his life. Daxter’s going to return the favour, he_ won’t _let Jak drown. “If you don’t like it, you can leave, and I won’t try and stop you, scouts honour.”_

_Jak crocked his head to the side, a glimmer of the curious boy rising to the surface. “Fine, whatever, let’s just go.”_

_“You won’t be disappointed!” Daxter bounced to the floor, tail swishing in victory. “C’mon, c’mon!” he urged eagerly, leading Jak down the narrow staircase to the living room. “Ta-da!” he exclaimed, gesturing to the fort, which Keira had added fairy lights too, where she found them, he has no idea._

_“Dax, Keira.” He looked from them to the fort and back again, surprise colouring his voice. “You did all this? For me?”_

_“Of course, we did, baby!” Daxter said, trying to make the words sound flippant but every time Jak was surprised or wary of an act of kindness it chipped away at Daxter’s already shattered heart. He had been hurt, mistreated and used by so many people that it left a gaping chasm of doubt and mistrust behind. It stung every time Jak questioned his sincerity or hesitated when given the opportunity of making a choice even if that choice was just picking a movie to watch. Each time it makes Daxter hate Praxis a little more, makes him want to scream with rage that would rival this storm. Instead, he says “you like?”_

_“Yeah, it’s just like… like old times.” Jak’s voice cracks, he shifts awkwardly on the spot, ducking his head to conceal the tears behind a curtain of dirty blond hair._

_“We’ve even got a storm.” Daxter gestured to the frosted-over windows, giving Jak a moment to collect himself._

_“You were terrified of them as a kid,” Keira spoke up, “though I still remember when you slept right through the mini hurricane.”_

_“You could sleep through anything.” Jak chimed in, venturing towards Keira and the fort, peering in. “Well, shall we?” he looked over his shoulder, nodding at them to follow him._

_“Wait, we need snacks!” Daxter shouted just as Jak disappeared behind the covers._

_“Way ahead of you, Dax,” Keira said, peeling back the entrance to reveal Jak and a plat of cookies._

_“Perfect!” he clasped his hands together gleefully before diving in, settling down next to Jak and helping himself to a chocolate chip cookie._

_“Thank you, Daxter,” Jak says, ghost of a smile lighting up his pale face, the healthy glow of his naturally tanned skin has dimmed over the past week, shadows falling under eyes, cheeks hollowing out as bouts of nausea leave him unable to eat. “And you too Keira,” a blossom of pink brings colour to his face, eyes sparkling in the reflection of the twinkling lights, “thank you.”_

_“This is what friends are for,” Keira reminds him, reaching over to squeeze Jak’s fingertips. “We’re here for you Jak, always.”_

_Jak’s blush deepens, fingers twitching in hesitation before lacing through Keira’s delicate ones._

_“What the hell have you kids done to my living room?” A hoarse voice roars from outside the fort._

_“Excuse me a moment.” Daxter sets the cookie aside, poking his head out to find a rather annoyed Torn. “Do you mind keeping it down? This is our safe place, and you are not welcome.” He points directly at Torn, wiggling a finger at him. “Kids only!” he declared, claiming the word and throwing it back in his face. “Be gone now.” He waves him off, pulling the covers tightly closed in a manner that screams conversation over, please kindly fuck off. “All sorted.” He dusted his hands off before placing them on his hips in triumph._

_There is muttering from outside, a shudder from the house followed by footsteps and the slam of a door. They are alone once more. The rest of the afternoon is spent tucked away in their sanctuary made of sheets and threadbare blankets, surrounded by pillows and reminiscing about the past. Jak falls asleep with his head pillowed on Keira’s lap, nimble fingers combing out tangled locks. Daxter makes himself comfortable on a mound of pillows, content for what feels like the first time in months._

_The storm still rages, but for a few precious moments, under glittering lights, they are kids again._

**~~X~~**

Salty air is tainted by the metallic stench of Metal Head blood, a writhing body falls to the sand, going still as its life drains out. Dark eco ripples and glows, gravitating towards Jak before seeping into his skin. It pulsates and strums in his veins, teeth grinding at the unpleasant sensation. It spreads to every nerve, zapping and crackling against bone. It’s disorientating, causes Jak to lose focus long enough for a Stinger to get the drop on him. It dives at him from the shallows, spiked tail aimed right at his throat, but a violent blast from the left pulverises it, the shock wave sending Jak stumbling backwards.

Without Daxter’s familiar weight, Jak finds himself overbalancing, crashing to the ground in a rather ungraceful fashion. He spits out a mouthful of sand, bites back the frustrated growl and rolls over, already prepared for another attack. His wild gaze sweeps over the mangled bodies lining the shore in search of movement, everything is quiet, _still_ _,_ Metal Heads dead or gasping their last breaths. A giant, gloved hand reaches into his line of sight, Sig’s apologetic face appearing behind it.

“Sorry cherry, that was probably a little too close for comfort.”

“It’s fine.” Jak accepts the outstretched hand and apology with a slight shrug of the shoulders, almost dying isn’t exactly a new life experience at this point. “Better than being stabbed to death by a Metal Head.”

“Well, I agree with you there, chilli pepper. Those Stingers have a nasty venom too, seen some of the toughest people I know scream in agony from the smallest cut.” He kicks at a Stinger corpse, its legs twitch feebly, Sig rams the butt of peacemaker into its gut, the force causing its entire cavity to collapse inward.

Jak takes a few steps back to avoid the dark eco that trickles out with the creatures’ blood and innards. He’s gained a great deal of control over the dark transformations, but they are still painful, and he’s already let the beast out once today. “I’d rather not find out,” he said, holstering the blaster and turning his gaze towards the sand dunes stretching out into infinity. “Do you ever wonder what’s out there?”

"Death, probably," Sig replied nonchalantly, "Metal Heads, cacti, an entire forgotten civilisation."

“Wait, what?” Jak pins Sig with a disbelieving gaze, lips loosely quirking into a grin. “You’re kidding right?”

Sig stays silent, waves lap against the shore, carrying limbs and gems out to sea, eco and blood oozing into the ocean before vanishing in inky tendrils. Another second passed, Jak’s about to speak when Sig turns around, face splitting into a shit-eating grin. “Nah, just messing with you, cherry.” He hefts the peacemaker over his shoulder, marching away from the carnage. “I think we deserve a rest after that.”

“You don’t want any trophies?” Jak jogged after him, falling into stride at his side.

“Between you and peacemaker there’s nothing worth keeping,” he answered, voice light and teasing before deepening with sincerity, “besides, I’ve had enough of sifting through stinking corpses. Trophies were Krew’s thing, I don’t need to keep score or flaunt my skill to the world. Killing Metal Head’s is survival, not sport.”

“I always thought you enjoyed killing them.”

“Oh, I do, these monsters have wreaked havoc for years, and I certainly enjoy the thrill of the hunt, but, well.” He trailed off, green eye scanning the surrounding wasteland. There isn’t much too see, the pumping station is a faint glint of grey in the distance, behind them the ocean, every other direction white-hot sand. There’s no Metal Heads or prying ears to overhear what he says next. “I’ve done some things I’m not proud of over the last few years, now I’m trying to make a change for the better.”

“What makes someone a good person?” the words spring from Jak’s tongue without warning, making him feel somewhat foolish for asking such a puerile question. But there is a part of him that yearns to know if he was still a good person. Was he still a hero though he’d killed dozens of Krimson guards? Was he still good even though he’d wanted to kill Praxis, wanted to destroy everything that he built just so the bastard would know what it felt like to lose everything? Jak watched the light drain from Praxis’s face, stared at his lifeless body with an urge to scream building in his chest. He wanted to shake him, to rage at the unfairness of being robbed of his revenge, but the city was under attack, so he swallowed the scream and walked away.

“Honour and loyalty,” Sig’s reply interrupts Jak’s messy spiral of thoughts, “and doing the right thing even when you don’t have to.”

There is such intensity in Sig’s gaze, such respect and admiration being directed at him that Jak is forced to walk away. He’s not used to being shown reverence. The taunting names shouted at him in the city, the cruel labels given to him by the guards have embedded deep, not so easily shaken despite his best efforts to do so. Darkness falls across his face, heat ebbing as the broad leaf of a palm tree blocked out the rising sun. Jak keeps his gaze ahead as Sig walks over, tries not to flinch when a large hand lands on his slightly trembling shoulder.

“You alright, chilli pepper?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” It takes every ounce of strength not to pull away, to keep his voice steady. “We should head back to the city before we die from heat stroke.”

“We’ve got another two hours before that happens,” Sig said, thick fingers squeezing Jak’s shoulder in comfort. “Why don’t we enjoy the view awhile? I got some dragon fruit fresh from the Wasteland that I’m willing to share with my favourite hunting buddy. Whatcha say, golden boy?”

Jak sighed, torn between being annoyed and grateful for Sig’s concern, he could see a thinly veiled excuse to get him to talk from a mile away. Pivoting, he is met with a toothy grin that dissolves the irritation right from his veins. Damn Sig and his big heart and for acting like the caring, concerned adult that had sorely been missing from his life for the past two years. In answer, Jak sits down, slumping under the tree with a heavy thud.

Sig sets peacemaker aside and sits down next to him, retrieving the desert fruit from his hip pouch and a knife from his belt. “You know,” he says as he slices into the hard shell, “if you ever need to talk to someone, I'm a pretty good listener."

“Thanks, but I'm alright.” Jak’s getting a little tired of people asking him to talk. He knows they are trying to help, that Daxter has assembled a ragtag team of friends to support him out of the goodness of his heart, but it’s just so tiring. He’s tired of being reminded that he’s still not okay, that compared to everyone else he is broken, is less then who he used to be. No longer the heroic, carefree boy that ventured across fire and ice to fight Lurker’s and evil sages. No longer the reneged soldier with a bad attitude and a need for revenge. No longer the sorrowful, anxiety-stricken boy who couldn’t even venture outside.

He’s better, but he’s not, is caught in the middle, suspended in a place the monster can no longer reach, but their whispers are still heard. Fingers seep into the sand, curling around a fist full of tiny granules, squeezing together tightly enough to cause pain.

“You don’t look alright, cherry.” Sig’s eye flickers to his clenched fists, Jak almost expects him to start fussing the way Daxter does; instead he holds out a piece of fruit.

Jak’s fingers uncurl, shaky hands dusting off sand before accepting the fruit with a grateful nod. Sig doesn’t pry, though his gaze does linger a moment longer before shifting back to look out across the vast plains.

“Have I ever told you how I lost my eye?”

“No, I don’t believe you have.”

“I was about your age, wasn’t anywhere near as tough as you though.”

Jak can’t imagine Sig ever being anything less than the hulking, hardened Wastelander that he is today. It felt like he came into this world a warrior, ready for a fight from the moment he could walk. Acts of violence change people, he knows that better than anyone. He’s hardly the sweet little mute boy who enjoyed playing in the mud with his crocadog.

“I was a scrawny thing too, useless in a fight, but my friend, well he could hold his own against the Krimson Guards and a pack of Metal Heads. You remind me of him, actually.” He admitted, looking down at Jak with a fond smile. “I saw the resemblance the first time we hunted Metal Head’s for Krew. My friend had a reckless streak, it got us into some pretty hairy situations, but I could always rely on him to get us out of them. And he did, for the most part.” Sig’s gaze takes on a faraway glint, momentary suspending him in the past. “I thought I was untouchable, a smooth talker who could weasel his way out of anything, with a best friend to throw a punch if that failed.”

“One day, when I was walking the streets for some reason I can’t even remember, some thug guards drunk on power started pushing me around. The smart choice would have been to stay quiet, to stay where they threw me in the mud, but I decided enough was enough. It was time to be brave, to fight back!” He clenched his fist, voice layered in a wealth of emotions. “So, I got back up and ran at the guard that shoved me, felt damn near invincible doing it too.” Sig chuckled ruefully, hands falling helplessly to his side. “For a few moments I thought I’d do it, I’d walk away the winner… well, you can guess how that turned out.” He tapped his robotic eye with a grimace. “Bastard gauged my eye out to teach me a lesson, they left me bleeding in the streets. But you know what, I did learn my lesson.”

“Which was?” Jak asked, horrified by his friend’s ordeal, stomach twisting into knots, heart aching for the scared boy who’d laid dying in the streets. Jak knew how terrifying it was to be left alone in pain, to struggle with every breath, scared it would be the last. He knows how cruel people can be, has felt the bite of a blade many times over, has gazed into cold, hollow eyes and glimpsed the sight of a wicked heart and dangerous mind.

Sig titled his chin up, proud and defiant, words full of resolve as he said, “I’d never be helpless again.”

"So, you became a Wastelander," Jak drew in a breath of admiration, inspired by Sig's courage.

“Sure did, cherry!” The sorrow vanished from his voice, triumph grin lighting up his face. “But it took time, it took a long, long time before I felt safe again. I had nightmares for months, I felt weak and pathetic, but it was the bastards who hurt me who were the cowards.” Anger darkens his tone, violence flashing in his gaze, gone as quick as it came. “Anyway, what I’m getting at, is it’s okay to not to be okay. You’ve been through unimaginable things. the pain, the anger, the sorrow, you gotta let it all in before you can heal. Though you probably know that.”

“I have been told sometimes you have to break in order to rebuild,” Torn told Jak this late one winter night when the nightmares had chased him from sleep. Not wanting to wake Daxter he snuck downstairs, expecting to find it quiet and dark, but rustling sounds were coming from the kitchen. Jak could have crept back upstairs, curled up under the covers, pretending the shadows weren’t terrifying monsters and that he didn’t feel sick to the stomach from the nightmare that woke him.

Instead; he went to Torn, who didn’t seem surprised when he tiptoed into the kitchen, merely looked up from the documents he was working on and nodded to the empty seat opposite him. They sat in silence at first, nothing but the howling wind to keep them company. Eventually though, after Torn had awkwardly offered to make Jak a hot chocolate, they started talking. At first about the rebuilding of the southern slums and the plans to one day reclaim Dead Town, then the conversation strayed. An urge to speak of the torment he endured rose within Jak, perhaps it was the hot coco or fatigue caused by restless nights, but Jak found himself revealing horrors previously untold.

In the end, they talked until dawn, until Jak’s throat was raw and eyes red from tears. 

“I’ve done the breaking,” Jak blinks the foggy memory away, exhaling the emotions tethered to it, “it was awful, but building doesn’t feel any easier.”

“Nothing ever is,” Sig admitted, a sad little smile playing at his lips. “You’re getting there, Jak, be proud of that.”

Sig’s words rise into the air, falling over Jak like cool summer rain, sinking in, _embedding_. Embers sparks back into flames that spread a cleansing, healing warmth through a fragile, frozen frame. The energy swells within, scattering dark thoughts and silencing whispers. It ignites a forgotten sense of pride, plucking strings free, slashing self-contempt to ribbons and sending it away on the gentle desert breeze. Jak feels the shift like the earth is moving beneath him, the release so powerful it brings tears to his eyes. 

Eyes closing against the sting, Jak leans back against the palm tree, finally taking a bite of the sweet dragon fruit. Jak can't believe he's made it this far, a few weeks ago he was still wallowing in misery, hiding under covers in hopes the world would forget him. He's stumbled and crawled over broken glass to get here, faced demons and nightmares, relived violent memories, and though he's not better, not yet, he’s miles from the start.

**~~X~~**

Jak arrives home just as the clock strikes twelve, clothes speckled with Metal Head and boots trailing grains of sand all the way from the front door to the fridge. Daxter would be annoyed with him, had a rant right on the tip of his tongue, but when Jak places the ice pack onto his wrist with a wince, the irritation fades to cold ash. Daxter leaps up onto the countertop, studying Jak cautiously, scanning for fresh cuts and bruises. Apart from the inky blood Jak appears unharmed, even smiles, an honest to god smile, when their eyes meet.

Daxter wants so desperately to ask the dreaded ‘are you okay?’ But he knows Jak can’t stand that question, not after being asked it so many times, by so many people. Daxter doesn’t need to ask though, he can read his best friends’ mood by the set of his shoulders, tell if he is happy or sad by the blue of his eyes. Jak’s stance is relaxed, brows pinched ever so slightly in pain, but his eyes resemble the ocean on a clear summer’s day.

He seems happy, calm in a way Daxter isn’t used to seeing him.

“I’m fine, Dax,” Jak assured, though this is a hint of strain in his voice, fingers tightening on the ice pack like doing so will stop the pain. It won’t, this is a wound time cannot heal.

Daxter shakes his head, hands coming to rest on his hips. “Jak, buddy, you need to be more careful.” He says without knowing if Jak took a tumble or a hit, doesn’t need a detailed picture of events to know something caused the injury to flare up. By now Daxter knew there were different levels of pain the old injury caused. They keep avoiding the subject, letting it loom in the background like a dark cloud, rather than addressing it.

Jak’s wrist is never going to heal on its own, the damage is too significant, and their line of work only adds to it. Surgery is the only option, but Jak would rather deal with the pain than face an operation. Daxter hates that the only way to help Jak is by putting him through something triggering, but the joint is getting stiff, aching frequently. A spasm, bones clicking out of place or locking together in pain would be all it took for Jak to fail a shot, miss the attended target and end up Metal Head food. The point is they are circling around a topic that needs to be discussed, avoiding an issue that isn’t going away.

Daxter doesn’t want to be the rain on this beautiful spring day, doesn’t want to cut Jak’s sails and tug free painful memories, but what’s one more hurdle? “Jak, you need to get that seen too.”

Jak’s gaze drops to the ground, shoulders sagging in defeat. “I know, Dax.” He looked up, eyes no longer a calm ocean but not quite a stormy sea. “I’m just afraid.”

“I know, buddy.” Daxter pats his hand comfortingly, offering what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “It won’t be like those awful experiments, and I will be with you every second, okay? No one will hurt my best friend while I’m around to say something about it!”

Jak shakes his head fondly, the corners of his mouth turned up as eyes lighten. “Thank you, Dax, for everything.”

“You would have done the same for me.” Jak’s always been there for him, saved his life countless of times. He doesn’t need to thank him for this, but the gratitude makes Daxter’s heart sing. No, not just the gratitude but Jak’s equanimity at this conversation. In the past Jak would have stormed away, anger and fear forcing the walls up and Daxter out. Jak isn’t running, isn’t snapping or refusing to speak. Jak’s admitting that he’s afraid while accepting there is no other choice to make. “I’m proud of you, Jak,” Daxter says, tears prickling at his eyes as his heart swells with pride.

Jak doesn’t reply; instead, he pulls Daxter against him, the simple gesture of a hug saying more than words could. Daxter hugs back, not caring that the tears trickle free or how tightly he clutches at Jak. He’s so very proud of him for fighting tooth and nail, for facing the trauma and coming out stronger than ever. God, he feared they’d never get this far, yet here there are. Daxter can look back and see the progress made, see that rivers and roads have been crossed and that better days are here are at last.

He knows Jak still has plenty of recovery ahead of him, hell they both do, but for now, on this bright, beautiful spring day, they’re okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to mention I expanded on the J&D world and added a few canon divergences to the history and the world, mostly so I could have Jak and Daxter go out for burgers and shakes.


End file.
